


Penumbra (Winter Special)

by Saki101



Series: Penumbra [4]
Category: Dark Shadows (1966), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bells, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, Established Relationship, Fairy Tale Elements, Gothic, M/M, POV John Watson, Plants, Rivers, Romance, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 41,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: Autumn is fading into winter.  As the days grow shorter, Holmeswood Manor reveals something new to John.Excerpt:I turned back to the window.  “I don’t recall this last year.  Were we away?”  I leaned out.  The breeze was sharp.  The sound of bells louder.“No.  I told you this summer that you were changing.”***Written in a series of short chapters to the prompts of the2020 Advent Ficlet Challengeand taking as inspiration the John and Sherlock of the Unaired Pilot.The terms of the Advent Ficlet Challenge are very flexible, so, in keeping with that, I will be adding on the twelve days of Christmas to my posting timeline.  (And, a bit beyond it appears!)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Penumbra [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/708603
Comments: 241
Kudos: 62
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Hear the Tolling of the Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Another instalment of the _Penumbra_ series, which is a gothic AU of the Sherlock universe inspired by the universe of Dark Shadows (the 1966 television series). 
> 
> **Preview:** In Maine, there was Collinwood and the three centuries of history that were woven into its walls. In London, there is Holmeswood Manor (or the Manor on Baker Street as the urban legends have it), tucked now into a city street when once its oak woods rolled from the heath to the river.
> 
>  **Series One Overview:** John grew up with its stories of ghosts and wizards and things that hunt in the night. They didn’t keep him from interviewing for a residential post at the Manor because he couldn’t afford London on an army pension and there could not possibly have been any truth to the tales.
> 
>  **Series Two Overview:** It's been more than a year since John came to live at the Manor on Baker Street. He has learned many things, one being that the stories hadn't prepared him for the half of it.
> 
>  **Summer Mini-episode:** A glimpse of life in the season after the ball.
> 
>  **Winter Special:** John's knowledge of the Manor expands further.  
> ***

Firelight flickered across the pages of the manuscript lying open on the table, up the dark shelves of books lining the high walls. It glittered in the glass fronts of the cabinets, in each of the window panes. 

Somewhere, a clock began to chime.

I looked up from my reading, counting the strikes under my breath, …”two, three, four…” 

_I don’t recall ever seeing a clock in the Manor._

Haven’t seen all of it.

_Spending too much time in here poring over books. Or, in bed..._

Shut it.

My gaze drifted from the shadows beyond the open library door, to the flames dancing in the windows. Beyond them, all was black. “…eleven, twelve, thirteen.” I got up to close the curtains.

I stopped, hand grasping the edge of the velvet. “I hear bells,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Sherlock said from somewhere behind me. “’Tis the season.”

I opened the window and glanced over my shoulder. The door to the laboratory had closed. The reading lamp by the sofa had gone dark. The draft fanned the flames in the hearth, their shadows stretching further up the walls. The skeletal birds suspended from the ceiling swayed on their wires. 

I turned back to the window. “I don’t recall this last year. Were we away?” I leaned out. The breeze was sharp. The sound of bells louder.

“No. I told you this summer that you were changing.” 

A wave of heat came with the memory.

“Your senses are sharper. You didn’t hear them last year.” His hand was firm on my shoulder, drawing me back in. “We don’t need this much time. The bells are pealing for those who have farther to travel.”

As he spoke, a second bell began to toll. Its deep tone rolled down the road. I looked up at Sherlock. It reminded me of his voice. He reached past me and shut the window. The flames calmed. He drew the curtains together and sighed.

“Since you can hear them, we’ll have to go this year.” 

He turned away as he spoke. 

_Wonder if it’ll be as exciting as the spring get-together._

Not quite that exciting, I hope.

I watched him cross the room and shivered. Carefully, I tugged one side of the curtain over the edge of the other before returning to my warm sofa and half-read manuscript.

Sherlock paused by the laboratory door, the curve of his shoulders outlined by the glow of the fire.

I clicked on the reading lamp.

He slipped into the lab and shut the door.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 prompts: 1 & 2 ('Tis the season and Bells)


	2. Deck the Halls

Matters of bells and chimes put to the side for the moment, I resumed my study of the manuscript I had been reading. Sherlock would explain more in time, or I would discover more on my own. One of the things living at the Manor had shown me was that these things flowered in their own time. 

So, I had made myself comfortable before hefting the venerable tome onto my lap - legs up on the sofa, back against the armrest facing the laboratory and the sliver of bluish light escaping from its ever so slightly open door. Through it I could hear the faint clicks and whirs of the equipment Sherlock was using to analyse the bioluminescent toadstools he’d found sprouting in a damp corner of the courtyard the day before.

The manuscript over which I was pouring was primarily a treatise on ailments and injuries of supernatural genesis, although a few of the most common ills that flesh is heir to were covered, too, as well as when the one exacerbated the other. Each section concluded with one or more recipes for antidotes or other treatments. Their pages had a number of stains on them that spoke of practical usage, and I wondered whether Sherlock’s experimentation had been the cause of some of them. Lastly, the chapters ended with music to be sung or played during the preparation and administration of the medicines. Sometimes, the same melody worked for both phases of treatment, others specified different songs. 

_I wonder what would happen if the different tunes were reversed._

I shouldn’t like to experiment with that.

The section I was reading was a long one, covering fractures of both mundane and supernatural origin and their complications. The piece of music at the end covered two pages with cramped notation. I began to hum, then thought better of it. My harp would yield more precise tones. A quick glance about revealed no harp, which puzzled me until I recalled that it was next to my bed, where I’d set it aside once Sherlock had fallen asleep as the sky brightened to a lighter grey with the dawn.

I placed the manuscript on the table and dashed to the hall and up the dark stairs, reaching out for the bannister only at the top to swing my forward momentum towards my room.

“Damn!”

I pressed my palm to my lips and sucked on the scratched skin.

The light in the hall came on. 

“John!” Sherlock called from the bottom of the stairs.

Clearly, I was a pitiful sight, because he didn’t wait for an answer, bounding up the stairs and seizing my hand before I could say a word. He examined the puncture wounds for a moment then raised my hand to his mouth. At the feeling of his tongue tracing the scratches on my palm, I closed my eyes.

Well, that was me done for several minutes. 

Eventually, his ministrations ended.

“John.”

I opened my eyes. 

His were bright and his lips were scarlet. 

“Clearly, your other senses are sharpening as well,” he said and daintily wiped his lips with his fingertips.

I waved my healed and thoroughly cleaned palm between us. “That hardly required heightened senses to detect.” I glanced past him and saw what the cause of my pain had been. Sharp, glossy leaves punctuated with clusters of bright red berries were twined around the entire bannister.

I reached out towards them; inserted a finger under one of the pointed leaves. “It’s carved of holly wood?” I asked Sherlock, but the leaves rustled their answer first. “These were here last year?” They answered that question, too.

“They sprout every year when the days grow short,” he replied at the same time.

I crouched down and found one of the places where the branches grew from the polished wood at the base of the spindles.

“Do you use the berries?” I asked, stroking along one branch with my forefinger. My palm tingled where the scratches had been.

“Yes,” he said and I heard the smile in his voice. “I use them in a number of preparations. So do Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner.”

I glanced up at him. “They were among the ingredients in a couple of the preparations in the book I’ve been reading.”

“You shall have plenty of fresh ones to use now.”

I nodded, drawing my hand slowly away from the plant. It liked being admired.

“So, these were here last year, but I couldn’t see them or…” I waved my hand about again. “…feel them.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied, turning to look along the bannister. “But I haven’t seen them so luxuriant in a while.”

A few flowers were opening here and there among the leaves near where we were standing.

“Deck the halls,” I murmured.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 prompt: Number 4 (Deck the Halls)


	3. Tuonela

Seasonal injuries healed, I proceeded on to my room where I found my harp by the bed where I expected it to be.

“A walk on the roof for some fresh air?” Sherlock asked.

That surprised me. I had expected him to hurry back to the laboratory.

“Experiment done?”

“Not completely,” he answered. “The last test resulted in rather pungent fumes, which might take some time to dissipate even with the window open.”

“Ah,” I replied, easing the harp into its cover.

“Bring a jacket, it’s chillier than it was when we looked out earlier. Extra blankets for the bed tonight, too, I think.”

I glanced away from my task. 

Sherlock was gazing out the balcony doors. “The moon will be setting soon,” he said.

I shook my head. “I knew that chapter was long, but not a whole night’s worth.” I fastened the ties on the harp’s cover.

“The nights ebb and flow,” he said. “Not easy to quantify them.”

I scowled as walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a jacket with a fleece collar. 

_Astronomers have it calculated to the second._

Possibly not here, they haven’t.

“Bring your harp. Its voice goes well with the bells.”

I opened a drawer and fished about for my fingerless gloves.

Sherlock strode out the door. A panel was open next to the fireplace on the landing when I joined him. 

My eyebrows shot up.

Sherlock glanced sidewise at me. “You’ve barely scratched the surface, you know.”

_The house isn’t the only thing whose surface you’ve barely scratched._

I was not going to argue with that.

*** 

We emerged near the corner where the carrier pigeons roosted. I’d come out that way with Mrs Hudson in my early days, but we’d begun our climb in the kitchens. The sound of fluttering wings accompanied our passage now. There was a door to one side of the dovecote, under the platform at the level of the top of the wall from which the birds took flight.

I’d never seen that door either.

_Is he showing off tonight?_

I almost asked him, but the door was open and he through it before I could speak, so I followed him out to the edge of the roof. After that, I lost my words for a while.

We were on the east side of the Manor, an orientation which the sinking moon behind us allowed me to identify. I was surprised I had the presence of mind to take note of it. 

From the first, I had stepped through onto the south-facing side of the Manor, seeing the forest from the roof, and the river running through it from the terrace at the ball. The view outside the library windows, however, had always been of Baker Street, never a hint of this.

From this vantage, too, a phalanx of mighty trees swept past the Manor from the north, but at a distance. Immediately before its east wall, there was a sward. Perhaps this was where the trees had been felled to clear the way for the building of the Manor, letting the mighty stones come on their carts along the road which curved out of the trees to the south. 

The crushed stone of its surface glimmered in the moonlight, swooping past the entrance to the Manor directly below us, and disappearing into the woods again leading north. 

I leaned over the parapet. “Is that a moat?”

“It is.”

I could hear a bit of a smile in his answer. “So, there’s a drawbridge and a portcullis down there?”  


“About where Speedy’s and the next couple houses to the north are,” he replied.

I leaned further over the parapet, picturing Baker Street as a moat.

Sherlock gripped my shoulder. “I see the idea appeals to you, but I’d rather not have to fish you out of it.”

I settled back on the heels of my feet. “I can swim.”

He ignored that. “And it isn’t what I wanted to show you.”

“Oh,” I remarked, finally turning away from the view.

_You are the brilliant conversationalist tonight, Watson._

“Come,” Sherlock said and was off.

I kept glancing to the side, but without leaning over the parapet all that was visible were the tree tops, mostly the bare oaks' branches with a sprinkling of evergreen here and there. “Ouch.” I hopped the next few steps. “Was that a caldron?”

“For burning oil.” He looked over his shoulder. “Mind where you step; there are other supplies stowed along the way.”

“Right. Yes.” I hurried after him, trying to place the era from the armaments.

_There’s variety for you._

Will you stop it. I’ve never been out here before.

“Hurry, John. I want to get there before the dawn.”

_How far can it be?_

We must be close to the end of the block by now. Over the pub soon, I reckoned.

I checked the sky. The moon was still visible to the west, slightly hazy through the thin clouds that were obscuring the stars.

“Up,” Sherlock called from somewhere ahead.

_How can you lose sight of him on a narrow walkway, Watson?_

Sherlock can disappear whenever he pleases.

In this case though, he had simply ascended a flight of stairs to a tower, which I suspected marked a corner of the Manor.

“Sherlock?”

It was pitch black inside the tower.

“Up.” Sherlock’s voice echoed off the stone walls.

I felt my way forward with my toes, hands out by my side. A couple steps brought me to more stairs. Up I climbed, past a westward window that lit the curve of the stone steps for a few paces, then it was just my hand on the rail carved into the wall of the tower that guided me.

At the top there was a ring of windows, but no Sherlock. I turned almost full circle. A shadow passed outside one of the windows. I paused an instant, then finished my turn. Open door to the right of the one I had entered. Fine. Out I went onto the balcony that circled the top of the turret.

“Oh!”

_Better and better, Watson. Why don’t you just grunt?_

Gasp would be more like it.

The trees rose, wave upon wave of them, to a distant sky.

“When are we?” I asked.

“Long ago,” he whispered.

_I thought your boy was a scientist._

“Five millennia, give or take a century or two,” Sherlock added in a more conversational voice.

_All right, a bit more like it._

But it was the tone of his first reply that stayed with me as I gazed and gazed and felt my vantage was very small despite my being at the top of a rather tall tower.

“There.” Sherlock pointed.

I peered at the darkness near the horizon and saw nothing but the undulating tree tops. And then, a glimmer, a flicker in the dark.

Sherlock moved his arm, pointing further east. “And there.”

I squinted. A pinprick of light among the trees.

He moved his arm to his left. 

My gaze followed. I leaned forward. There, too, the tiniest dot of light. I glanced back to the east. The pinprick was moving. Northwest.

I shifted my eyes to the left. The dot was also moving. Northeast.

“Those are scores of torches we are seeing,” Sherlock said.

“Where are they going?” The minute I asked the question, I knew the answer.

Sherlock simply shifted his arm to indicate where he had pointed first.

I tilted my head a bit as I considered the direction and the height. “Is that Parliament Hill?”

“Llandin,” Sherlock murmured.

I imagined the hill must have had many names, but I liked the sound of the one Sherlock used.

“Play for it.”

“What…” I almost doubted my ears. “What shall I play?” I asked, deciding I had heard aright.

“Whatever you wish,” Sherlock replied. He’d lowered his arm, but hadn’t changed the direction of his gaze.

I slipped the harp off my back and unfastened the ties, my mind running through snippets of melodies. I set the cover aside, balanced the harp against my hip and shoulder and plucked a string and then another. C, D, C, F, G, A, B flat. Yes. I proceeded to play _The Swan of Tuonela_ for the flame on the hill in the night.

And Sherlock listened.

And the sky had brightened to pale grey by the time I had finished and the bells had begun to toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 prompts: Numbers 3, 7 & 21 (chilly, blankets, darkness)


	4. Storm

The light was disappearing from the sky when I awoke. The drawback to staying up until a winter dawn is that one can sleep through the next day entirely. I opened the balcony doors a crack and closed them fast. A day for jumpers and extra logs on the fire.

I dawdled in the shower, daydreaming in the steam.

Tea and toast and fruit were on the desk when I emerged - the tea hot, the butter just melted. It always made me smile.

Once caffeinated and dressed, I took my harp with me to the library. Midway down the stairs, the lights winked out. I did not grab the bannister; I checked the skylight. The luminous grey of a London night shone through it.

_So, electricity has already been invented._

It would appear.

The wavering glow of firelight spilled out onto the landing, followed by the vibration of one violin string. 

I looked round the corner of the open library door.

Sherlock gazed at me from his chair. He plucked another string.

"Do we know why?" I asked, waving my hand at the dark room.

"Thunder storm. Lightning struck the Enfield Power Station."

“We don't have a generator?” I asked, heading for my chair.

“It’s only connected to the lab equipment and the refrigeration units in the kitchens.”

“Why not the lights?” I set the harp on the floor and settled into my armchair. There was a newspaper on the table next to it, but firelight wasn’t the best to read by.

Sherlock lifted the violin to his shoulder. “Sometimes, the dark is better.”

He began to play the melody I had played on the roof. It sounded more plaintive on the violin.

“It was a good choice,” he said and didn’t speak again until he finished. 

I watched him play, his fingers bright, then dark, as the shadow of the bow swept over them. 

The last reverberations of the strings faded to silence. The splatter of rain against the windows panes took their place. A streak of white flashed between the incompletely closed curtains. Thunder followed close behind.

“Is it something dangerous the bells are summoning us to?” I asked when it, too, had faded away.

Sherlock shook his head, bow suspended high in the air by his ear.

“So I don’t need to train for anything? Sharpen any blades?”

His bow swooped down onto the strings and the wild opening of _Danse Macabre_ filled the room.

I gripped the armrests. Possibly, I didn’t breathe until he plucked the last note.

“Is that a hint?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Danse Macabre_ may be listened to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpms9Ob56U8&list=RDlpms9Ob56U8&index=1).
> 
> Chapter 4 prompt: #13 (Storm).


	5. Midnight

Studying gives me an appetite. It was true when I was a med student and it’s no less true now. Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner do a wonderful job keeping everyone at the Manor well fed, but I still nip down to the kitchens between times. Sometimes, in the wee hours.

I hummed at the door leading from the front hallway to the rear of the ground floor. It’s locked at night. I’ve meant to ask why, but I always get distracted by the food or the conversation or both. For a long while now, that hasn’t stopped me. I’ve become very good at locks. 

_How modest you are!_

It’s merely a fact. 

Opening locks and wards is like surgery. Simple ones can be like excising a mole, but for the complex ones the song has to reach the inner workings, to see them, understand them and undo them. After my first month, I don’t think the kitchen locks were ever meant to stop me, although they had that effect. I really should remember to ask who they are meant to stop.

They proved intricate, those kitchen locks. So, for a long time, I could only visit the kitchens after daybreak. I was rather proud of my first successful nocturnal foray.

“John, dear boy, what can we get you?” Mrs Hudson said when I reached the upper kitchen itself.

I took a step back. The aroma of spices should have alerted me to someone being present, but I hadn’t seen either her or Mrs Turner by the light of the lone candle in the middle of the long kitchen table. They leaned forward into its glow. 

“We didn’t mean to startle you, dear, come sit.” Mrs Hudson patted the table next to her. 

As I went to join them, I saw behind her the glowing embers in the hearth and the pot simmering over it.

“That smells wonderful,” I said as I sat.

There was movement in the dark and an earthenware mug was set before me and a bowl of stew with a spoon already in it next to that.

I inhaled appreciatively.

“Eat,” Mrs Turner urged, “It’s going to be cold tonight.”

Kit took a seat next to her with a mug and bowl of his own.

Something small brushed past my shin and a moment later a small face emerged over the table edge between Kit’s elbows. He set down his mug and scratched between his cat’s ears.

“You’re up late,” I chided Kit.

His eyebrows went up.

“It’s only nine,” Mrs Turner replied. 

“Is it?” I asked around a mouthful of stew. I swallowed and took a drink of the mulled cider. “It seems like I’ve been reading much longer than that.”

“You might have been. Time’s often different up in the study,” Mrs Hudson stated.

“Oh?”

“You hadn’t noticed?” she asked.

“I suppose I haven’t.”

Mrs Turner got up and disappeared into the dark.

A ewer of steaming cider and a plate of spice cakes appeared next to the candle. “Drink up, lad,” she said. “That’s an old family recipe. The cold winds of winter are as nothing if you have a bellyful of that.”

The notion of venturing up to the roof for another look despite the weather resurfaced in my brain.

“I heard you’ll be going up to Llandin this year,” Mrs Hudson said as she sliced a thick piece of cake.”

The image of making my way up to the hill alone flashed through my mind. “With Sherlock,” I said very quickly.

“Of course, dear,” she said and put a plate with the cake slice near my mug.

“You could find it on your own though,” Mrs Turner added. “One just follows the bells. You’d nae get lost.”

“You’ve both been, then,” I asked, taking a taste of the cake before returning to my stew.

“I hadn’t had anyone to bring in quite a few years, but then Old Doctor Hooper died and we all went,” Mrs Hudson said.

“He was a clever one,” Mrs Turner said. “Dying in the dark days. Mrs Hooper and Doctor Molly could bring him up entire.”

“It was a beautiful, clear night,” Mrs Hudson said, gesturing towards the ceiling. “All the stars twinkling.”

“There were shooting stars, too,” Kit interjected. “And that’s where I found Midnight.” He gave the cat a bit of stew meat. She seized it in her teeth and jumped down to the floor with it. “Hiding under some deadwood I was gathering up for the fire. Tiny, she was. Skinny and injured. I carried her home underneath my jumper.”

Mrs Turner reached out and ruffled Kit’s hair. “We took care of that,” she said. “She was sleek and well-healed in no time.” She glanced at the floor. “Make sure you clean up after her.”

“I will, Mrs Turner,” Kit vowed and dropped another bit of meat to the floor.

“Bring wood with you,” Mrs Hudson said. “Too much competition from the young ones up on the hill.”

“Right,” I said.

“I gathered the most that year,” Kit said proudly.

I looked across the table at him. He was picking another morsel of meat out of his bowl. “Got a prize for that, did you, Corporal?” I asked.

He looked up at me and smiled. “I got Midnight, sir. She was my prize.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 prompt: Numbers 10 & 16 (Candle and Twinkling)


	6. Willow

Chapter 6:

_I ran. Something followed._

_I ran faster, around the old tree trunks, panting._

_What followed me panted, too._

_The leaves were slick beneath my bare feet. I tried not to slip, not to trip._

_It growled._

_I did not look back. I said it aloud to myself as I ran. “Don’t look back.”_

_It was getting closer._

_I looked up at the sky as if it might help, bright blue between the bare branches._

“Woof.”

I sat up in bed, panting.

Looked to the left – desk. Turned my head – wardrobe. Further – door to the loo. Further – doors to the balcony. The sky was blue.

“Woof.”

I could hear it panting, its claws against the door.

I hummed the opening tune. The bedroom door opened.

Baskerville galloped in, lead hanging from his mouth. He dropped it on the bed, sat up, resting his huge head on the covers. He tail thumped against the rug.

I reached out, rubbed the ebony fur behind one ear.

“Everybody desert you this morning?” I asked.

His tail thumped harder.

Baskerville rarely made the climb all the way to the bedrooms to find someone to take him for a walk. “Ah, Mrs Hudson is off visiting with her neice today, isn’t she?” I patted him on the head then threw the covers back. “Have you been out there a while, boy?”

He raised his head, red eyes full of hope. 

I scratched under his chin.

“Ok, ok. I won’t make you wait much longer. Just give me a few minutes.”

“Woof.”

***  


Baskerville is usually taken for his constitutional after dark, but he didn’t look like he could be patient much longer.

“Doesn’t explain where everyone else is,” I said from the loo. “Never mind. You and I haven’t been out together in a while.”

True to my word, a few minutes later I was dressed, and Baskerville and I were strolling out the front door carefully obscured from curious eyes. I’d left the lead back on the bed. It was more a way for him to communicate that he wanted to go out than an actual form of restraint. At least now, I knew how to obscure him when he ran ahead as effectively as when he trotted by my side. This was just as well for the other park goers.

Far before Baskerville was done leaping at falling leaves and dangling branches, twilight descended. We had the park to ourselves.

Near the open air theatre, I spotted an old tennis ball. I threw it high and far and and Baskerville roared after it and brought it back.

Thus, we ambled. I pulled the collar of my coat up, stuffed my free hand deep in my pocket and kept throwing the ball. I assumed Baskerville would get tired or hungry at some point, probably the latter.

Eventually, we turned down the path that edged the small lake by the rose garden. The long limb of a willow tree lay on the ground, partially blocking the footpath. The pale wood where it had ripped away from the main trunk was half blackened. 

Baskerville sniffed avidly among the leaves, snorting and huffing as he went.

“Last night’s storm hit home,” I told him.

He woofed. 

I stepped over the flattened section of the low railing that divided the grass from the walkway and ran my hand along the edge of the long tear. It had hurt. 

My hand came away sooty. I sniffed at the smudge before wiping it off on the grass. Sherlock would have been able to identify it as willow I supposed, knowing ash as he does. To me it just smelt like a wood fire. 

I stroked the undamaged bark. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Above my head, branches swayed. A few dried leaves floated past me.

I leaned against the tree trunk. And thought about the hill.

“Shall I take your branch with me?” I murmured. “Up to the flame on the hill?”

The rustling above me grew louder. Several more leaves fell about me.

“All right, then,” I said and tugged at the thin strip of bark that still attached the limb to the trunk. They separated easily. I ran my hand once more over the bark of the tree trunk and turned away, dragging the limb behind me.

*** 

Baskerville bounded past me into the brightly-lit hallway. 

I whistled the door closed behind me and pulled the willow limb further inside before letting it down.

“There you are!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “We were just wondering what had become of the two of you.” 

I dusted my hands off on my trousers and glanced up. 

Mrs Hudson was stood at the bottom of the staircase, hat and coat still on.

Sherlock was seated a few steps up the stairs, stroking Baskerville and looking past him at the branch taking up much of the entryway. "Do you see what they've brought, Mrs Hudson?"

She came closer, looked down at the charred end of the branch and back at Sherlock. "Lightning struck wood,” she said, turning back to me and giving my arm a squeeze.

"For the fire on the hill," I said, looking from him to her and back.

"Well found, John," Sherlock said and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 prompts: #12 and #14 (Visiting and Hope)


	7. Making a List

The curtains were drawn, the logs in the fire burning steadily atop a mound of hot ash, and I was plucking with pleasingly increased fluidity, the music for the mending of injured bones, when Mrs Hudson breezed into the library with a tea tray.

“You’re getting very good at that melody,” she said as she put the tray down on the coffee table. "I been enjoying listening to it."

I smiled at that. “It’s a complicated one, but I’m improving.” 

She glanced at the dish of holly berries on the table. “They look prettier with leaves tucked in amongst them. Shall I bring you a few?”

I set the harp aside and took the cup of tea she held out to me. “Oh, those aren't for decoration; I’m going to use them in a recipe.”

She tapped her forefinger against her lips. “Who are you planning to poison, John?” she whispered.

I laughed. “No one, I hope. It’s for the liniment I’m supposed to let simmer over the fire while I play that tune you’ve been admiring.”

“Oh,” she said, sitting down on the other end of the sofa. “You’ll need a tripod to hold it well above the flames and a long-handled pot for that. You know, I have a copper one with a holly wood handle that would be just the right size.” She cut a thick slice off a glazed loaf of bread and set it on a small plate. “Do you have all the other ingredients you need?” She passed me the plate and a silver fork.

“I’ve nearly finished making a list,” I replied, pulling out a loose sheet of paper I’d tucked into my notebook.

She took it from me, tilting it towards the floor lamp to get more light on it and murmuring as she read. “Most of these are growing up on the roof. You should have Billy or Archie help you locate them though because they’re all over the place and it would take you too long to find them on your own.” She started tapping her lips again. “Ah, this one grows down by the river stairs. You’d best go out the windows in the ballroom to get there. They like very wet ground and you may have to search for a while because the swans and the geese like to eat them.”

I grabbed a pencil and jotted this down in my notebook.

“Oh, this one grows under the trees at the edge of the sward. It’s doesn’t like full sun, but too far in and it doesn’t get enough light to flower. Out over the drawbridge and straight ahead, but in the spring, they don’t bloom this time of year.”

“I’ve never been out that way,” I said. Not to mention I had no idea how to regulate when it was on the other side when I stepped through.

She glanced at me. “All right, tomorrow we can go together, but it should be before the sun goes down. They’re shy plants and you really have to look to find them amidst the undergrowth.”

“If it won’t be any trouble,” I said.

She swatted my arm. “It’ll be nice to have a bit of spring sunshine in the midst of this.”

“Yes." I had thought it was only Sherlock who could find the time and weather that he wanted when he stepped through.

“Oh, but this,” she said, pointing to the last item I had added to the list. This has to be gathered by the light of the full moon. It also grows near the sward though, not too far into the woods.” She handed me back the list. “We’ll just have to make two trips. Do you have a lot more to add to your list?”

“I don’t know for certain,” I said, gesturing at the open manuscript on the table. “The recipe isn’t set out as a list, it’s all narrative and I haven’t finished reading through it yet. At least it’s all at the end of the chapter and I'm approaching the last of it.” 

She leaned over to see the manuscript better. “I remember how that was. I didn’t have the patience for it when I was young.”

I remembered what Sherlock had said about her true talent being for potions. “I’ve found it slow going,” I said.

She smiled. “But when you get a good result, it’s very satisfying.”

I nodded at that.

“You know,” she continued, patting her hip. “It’s been feeling better lately and this isn’t usually the time of year when it does. I wonder if the melody has been having an effect on its own.”

My eyes opened wide and I lay my hand on the open pages. “It doesn’t say anything about that possibility in here.”

“Maybe the practitioner who wrote that didn’t have your talent with song,” she said and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 prompt: #9 (Making a List)


	8. Joy

Sherlock never emerged from the lab. Mrs Hudson brought him in some tea and cake, emerged with a smile and came back with a basket that tinkled as she walked. That, too, disappeared with her into the lab. 

“I suggested he take a break for a while, but he’s not going to stop until he’s done,” she said when she came out. “But you, young man, need to get some sleep before we go foraging tomorrow.”

I nodded and she disappeared down the stairs.

I played for a good while longer, the melody becoming smooth and supple beneath my fingers. I didn't wait for Sherlock though and set my harp aside to go to bed while it was still dark.

It was a heavy sleep that came to me as soon as my head hit my pillow. How much time had passed when a cold draft left goosepimples along my spine I do not know, but I recognised the long, lean body that slipped into the bed and curved around my sleepy form.

“You finished,” I said.

Sherlock hummed as he trailed long, cool fingers across my chest and tucked them under my back on the far side of me.

Within his embrace, I turned towards him. “The night seemed very long without you,” I whispered. “You didn’t even leave the lab door ajar.”

“I could still hear you playing,” he replied. “You’re getting very good at that melody.”

I hummed a bit of the tune as I snuggled closer to him, nose under his ear, arm under his so I could stroke along his back. I breathed him in, him and the scents of whatever he had been working on.

My stomach grumbled. “I’m hungry,” I said, reaching up to his neck and rubbing back and forth through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Sherlock chuckled. “It’s the Joy.”

“You do give me joy,” I agreed, "but it’s usually other appetites that that joy inspires."

I pulled myself higher and pushed him onto his back. The urge to bite into the muscles of his neck was strong, but I restrained myself and merely nibbled along the length of his throat and nipped at his ear.

My stomach grumbled again.

Sherlock laughed this time. “A classical conditioned response,” he said.

“My stomach is not usually involved in my responses to you,” I insisted, although I bit a little harder on his earlobe.

“It’s the scent,” he said. “The Joy.”

I leaned back as though to look him in the eye, but it was too dark for that. “What?”

“I’ve been making a new batch of Joy for Mrs Hudson. It’s her favourite perfume and it isn’t made anymore.”

I scowled in the dark. “I’ve seen it in the shops,” I countered. My fingers fluttered down his side to that sweet curve I loved so well. A little conversation was not going to divert me from my ultimate goal.

“Another company bought the rights to the name, but changed the formula,” he said. “It made her so cross when she realised what had happened. She’d been wearing it since she was a girl. I remember she always smelled the same. It’s a pleasing fragrance.”

My stomach rumbled again. This time I laughed. It really didn’t suit the role of paramour. “I still don’t get it.”

Sherlock rolled me over, arms to either side of my shoulders. “She’s been feeding you for nearly two years and she always wears this fragrance.” He waved his fingertips beneath my nose.

I began to salivate.

“You associate the scent with good food,” he said.

He settled his weight across my hips and leaned down to kiss me.

My arm tightened across his lower back and pressed him closer.

“I note that hunger doesn’t override your other appetites,” he murmured against my lips.

“There’s hunger,” I whispered, “and then there’s _hunger_.”

Sherlock rocked his hips.

I lifted my head to catch his lips and kissed him until I had to stop for breath. 

Sherlock panted down at me, the flowery scent wafting off of him.

My hand stroked along his spine to his buttocks. “A trip to the kitchens afterwards?” I murmured.

He shifted up onto my chest and curled his hand around the back of my neck. “I can do better than that,” he said.

I licked my lips. It was true; he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 prompt: #6 (Joy)


	9. Sweet Gifts

When I stepped into the courtyard to meet Mrs Hudson for our excursion, it was a little past mid-day. Sunlight beamed through the bright blue gaps between the drifting clouds overhead and glittered in the spray from the fountain. I noted that it was the demure fountain that I have often walked past if I cut through the courtyard to the kitchen or sit on one of the benches along the walls to read. I glanced up towards my bedroom, its windows still wreathed in white roses despite the season, and took a deep breath of the fragrant air. 

“There you are,” Mrs Hudson called. “Right on time.”

I whirled around, banishing from my mind images of the other, less demure, fountain I often saw from my balcony.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” I said.

She smiled. “Good. I’ve got sweets cooling in the kitchen that I need to dip again when we get back. Sherlock is partial to the ginger ones, but I varied the recipe for you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She patted my arm. “Everyone has their distinct taste preferences. The trick is discovering what they all are.”

“Is that why the food at the Manor is the best I’ve eaten in my life?” That pleased her, but I hadn’t said it as a compliment, although it was that, too.

“Oh, it’ll take years before Mrs Turner and I know all of them, but we’re getting there. We have a special notebook of ingredients and recipes for you. Of course, Sherlock got us started. The things he can figure out just by taking a sniff of someone.” She smiled fondly and gestured at the door to the hall. “Shall we, dear?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I managed to say as my mind drifted back to those first meals at Holmeswood Manor.

_Oh, the ways you’ve been manipulated, Watson/_

Pleased. The ways I’ve been pleased.

She took my arm and we made our way down the path between the beds of herbs and flowers that led to the hall door.

The hallway was not on the other side.

_You should have been expecting that._

I thought it would be out the front door where things would change.

“The Manor’s been altered a lot over the years, John,” Mrs Hudson said.

I had stopped one step over the threshold. All the changes assailing my senses at once.

A clear spring sky arched above the huge, cobbled courtyard where we stood. I glanced over my shoulder. The door behind us was a massive oak, iron-studded exterior door rather than the glass-panelled interior door we had opened. Greyish blocks of stone, that might once have been white, rose to a height of several storeys on all sides of us, each wall interspersed with diamond-paned mullioned windows, open to the mild air on the upper floors. The fountain we had left behind us, splashed a few paces in front of us. Two fine black stallions, their wings folded neatly at their sides, drank avidly from its basin. Well beyond the fountain, the two-storey high arch of the gate yawned. The spikes of its portcullis looming above the head of the carter who was guiding a wagon laden with casks through the archway. One of the stallions looked up and whinnied at the cart horses.

“It didn’t look like this from the roof,” I gasped.

Mrs Hudson pointed at the parapet atop the thick walls over the gate. “You would have been up there,” she explained, “with the roof garden wall behind you, so you wouldn’t have seen this.”

I scanned the roofline and indeed, to the north, at the corner, a tower, such as I imagined the outside of the one whose stairs I had climbed with Sherlock looked, rose above the level of the parapet by several storeys. From it, if I had been looking west, I should have been able to see over the wall into the courtyard below, but I had observed nothing. I supposed that at night, if no lights burnt in the Manor, there would have been nothing to attract my attention and distract me from my goal of not losing sight of Sherlock’s retreating form. 

_Do you have any idea when you were up in that tower?_

No.

_Well, then, who knows what there might have been to see in the west if you had looked that way._

True enough.

I shifted my gaze to the south. A similar tower marked the corner there.

“Right.” I breathed out, an expanded map of my surroundings forming in my brain. “Lead onwards.”

We skirted the cart, which had come to a stop by one of the doors in the north wall of the courtyard, and made our way along the passageway that ran through the eastern wall. No one looked out from the rooms on either side of the passage. Casting a wary eye at the spiked tips of the palings of the portcullis as we approached them, my pace picked up.

Mrs Hudson didn’t miss that. “They haven’t impaled one of us yet,” she said.

“Well,” I replied, “I wouldn’t want us to be the first.”

“No, dear. None of us would want that.”

Our steps echoed on the thick planks of the drawbridge as we crossed over the moat.

I stayed well away from the edges of the bridge as there were no railings, but I could see that there were flowers growing along the moat's banks and ducks swimming in it. A deep breath affirmed that the air lacked the stench usually associated with moats. 

When we reached the crushed stone road that curved from the woods to the south up to the open drawbridge and then away to the north, I stopped and turned around to look at the façade of the curtain wall. The only openings on the outside were arrow slits. 

"It's a place well-prepared to defend itself."

“Few ever dared,” Mrs Hudson said, standing next to me with her hand up to shade her eyes. “And those who did failed.”

“Good,” I said decisively, but then added, “there were cauldrons for boiling oil up on the parapet."

“Best to be prepared, dear.”

“Quite,” I agreed. 

“Come,” Mrs Hudson urged, turning away and heading across the grass.

“The moat wasn’t what I expected,” I said as I caught up to her.

“It’s not really a moat, although much of its course around the manor house is re-enforced with stone.”

“Oh?”

She pointed north. “The Tyburn branches about where the boating lake is now, one stream flowing to the east and the other to the west of the house and reuniting a little south of us.”

“A natural moat,” I said.

“The river is very protective of the manor,” she replied.

Perhaps she was about to say more, but the jingling of bells interrupted our exchange. Out of the woods to the north, a flock of belled sheep emerged onto the sward. The lad in their midst with a shepherd’s crook looked familiar.

I stopped to squint at him. 

Mrs Hudson kept going. I hurried after her.

“Is that Archie?”

“It’s his many times great grand-sire,” she said. “Over the years, lots of people, like my parents, set off to find their fortunes beyond the boundaries of the Manor. Their descendants have a way of making their way back in time. A yearning for it seems to linger in the blood.”

We had reached the edge of the woods. The cool of the shade welcome after the bright sun of the sward.

“I'm hoping my niece, Flora, will come back to us. It was a job interview at Kew Gardens that brought her to London the other day." Mrs Hudson pulled a cap from her bag. "They would be lucky to get her. Flora has several gifts and one of them is a knack for making green things grow. Just like her grandfather did.”

“Does she know about the Manor?” I asked as I followed Mrs Hudson between the trees. She seemed to be following a path that I couldn’t see.

_Yet._

You're being strangely positive today.

I lifted my face to the green light falling through the leaves.

“This way, John.”

I turned my head towards Mrs Hudson’s voice. She’d covered quite a distance in the moment I had taken to soak in the greenshine.

_Maybe it was longer than a moment._

Maybe.

I set off after her.

There was a loud rustling in the underbrush to my left. A stag broke cover and leapt away under the trees. 

“I didn’t realise there were deer in the woods,” I said when I reached Mrs Hudson.

“Plenty of deer and the wolves that hunt them,” she said.

“Oh,” I murmured and wished I had brought something to defend us.

_Your bow and quiver._

Yeah, we’re too far back for the gun to work. Good as I was with an arrow or a dagger, I did often rue not being able to rely on my gun.

“Here we are,” Mrs Hudson said, leaning down by a tree trunk and holding aside the brush. “See?”

I got down on my knees and peered at the small plants growing between the roots of the tree.

She pulled a cushion from her canvas bag and sat herself down near the tree. “This is a good patch. I think we’ll get all you need and some for me as well right here.” She drew two cloth sacks out of her bag and handed me one. “Sherlock loves candied violets.”

I sat back on my knees. Sometimes an image just hits me and Sherlock lifting a candied flower to his lips was a vivid one.

_Grandmotherly lady nearby, Watson._

Right, right. Reining it in.

We both set to gathering.

From out on the sward, the music of a shepherd’s pipe floated in to us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 prompts: #5, #18 and #20 (Sweets, Shepherd and Gifts)


	10. Aquatic Vegetation

“John?”

I squelched past Sherlock without answering. 

He said nothing else, but I felt his eyes following my sodden progress across the library.

“After a hot shower, I’ll be better company,” I said as I went out the door.

*** 

Like a statue, I stood under the hot spray.

_You fell in, Watson._

Stating the glaringly obvious today, are we?

_You’re lucky no one saw you. It would have made a jolly sight! They would have guffawed. They would have had to sit down on the stone. Roll around on it, possibly._

Fine. It was a brilliant instance of physical humour. At least no one was watching. And, there was moss on the bottom step.

_Oh, to have had a photo when you came up spluttering. Or a video._

I’m very glad there is no photo. Ecstatic that there is no video.

I put some shampoo in my hair and finally started to wash. Most of the muck had been rinsed away. Bits of aquatic vegetation decorated the drain.

“John.”

I didn’t answer.

I felt his hands first, sliding into my hair, fingertips massaging at the temples, then up above my ears. My arms fell to my sides.

_You’re very easy._

He’s a skilled masseur.

 _Clearly._

“The steps get quite slippery in the winter,” he murmured by my ear.

_There may as well have been a video._

Yeah.

His hands slid from my hair. One gripped my shoulder, the other massaged my neck, firm, steady.

My head fell forward. “I didn’t even get any of the bloody leaves,” I grumbled. “I could at least have come up with a handful of the stuff.”

“I know a better place to collect mermaid fern.”

He nudged me under the spray, returned his hands to my scalp, chased all the lather and all the tension away.

“A warmer place?” I asked hopefully.

He pressed himself against my back, cheek resting against the top of my head. “That could be arranged,” he replied as his arms closed about me. “In a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 prompt: #15 (Jolly)


	11. Gathering

“Don’t dress!”

I turned from the wardrobe, vest in hand, and watched Sherlock stroll across the room in all his glory.

_God, that arse._

He’s far more than a beautiful arse.

_He is. He is. But look at it!_

Yes, well.

I walked to the bedside where Sherlock was leaning forward, reaching for something.

Water was still beaded on his back. I swiped at it with my vest.

Sherlock straightened up and turned around.

“Except for this,” he said. My moon blade dangled from his hand. “And your dressing gown…” He dropped the chain over my head. “…and your slippers.”

“Danger?” I asked, although the dressing gown and slippers didn’t seem the right kit for it.

“Probably not, everyone’s usually too busy copulating or resting up from it, to pose much of a threat, even if they were so inclined, but the blade is the best way to cut the fern you wish to gather. Their stalks are very tough. More than the slippery moss, that’s probably why you fell in the river when you tried to pull some of it up.”

Would have been handy to have been warned of that.

_I think there was more interesting information conveyed there._

“Copulating?”

I caught a glimpse of a smile as Sherlock whirled away, grabbing his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door as he went. “Come,” he said from the hall. The sound of his rapid descent echoed up the stairs.

I shoved my feet into my slippers, snatched my dressing gown off its hook, and hurried after him. From the hall, through the library and the passageway to the music room, I followed, Sherlock always just disappearing around the next corner or through the next doorway.

When I caught up to him, he was lifting the cushion and bench lid beneath the stained-glass window of the forest glade, but instead of an image in glass, the window was wide open, the sunny woods themselves revealed beyond.

I had never seen any of the windows open before. 

I drew closer. Warm air wafted over me, carrying the sound of birdsong and the buzz of insects with it. Before me stretched the landscape of the stained glass, but for one thing.

_Where’s your mythical doppelgänger?_

Despite the balmy air, I felt a chill. “We’re going there?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at me. “You requested warmer weather.”

I nodded.

He gestured towards the open window. “Well, there it is. Perpetual summer.”

_What’s the problem, Watson? You’ve always wanted to see what’s behind the windows in here, especially that one._

And the other one.

My gaze wandered to it. The youth with the winged sandals was missing from the seascape. His sandals, and his cap, rested on the cushion in front of the window instead.

I took a step back.

Sherlock shed his dressing gown.

_Come on, Watson. It’s not as though you didn’t always know it was him._

I shook my head. I didn't know that. We’ve been in this room hundreds of times; that image never changed before.

_Were any of the windows ever open?_

No.

_Well._

Just because two things happen at the same time, doesn’t mean one caused the other.

_Ask him, then._

I said nothing.

_Why the hesitation, Watson? You ask Mrs Hudson things all the time._

It’s different with Sherlock.

_Because you’re sleeping with him?_

My eyes wandered over Sherlock’s back. If he didn’t straighten up soon, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.

_Are you a beast, Watson?_

The question hung in my mind. Was I?

In a way. 

I concentrated on slowing my breathing. I was a bit old to be so randy all the time.

All right. It does have something to do with sleeping with Sherlock. That intimacy is a gift. It can’t be demanded and neither can his knowledge. He shares things in his own time and in his own way.

_Most of the time, he leaves you to find out yourself._

It’s the best way for me to learn things. It’s the hard way and yet it’s the one that works best for me.

_He has told you things though._

Gifts. 

My fingers twitched by my side. How they wanted to glide along that pale skin, dig into those firm muscles.

Or emergencies. I have faith in his judgment.

_You’re blinded by your lust._

Intense as it is, I don’t think I am. 

Sherlock straightened and turned around, a long, green cloth over his arm. He looked me up and down and one corner of his mouth curled up. “This will do for you.” He brushed my dressing gown off my shoulders and held the width of the cloth to my shoulders. “Perfect.” He thrust it into my hand. “The stitchers have been busy,” he said and returned to the cupboard under the window seat.

“What is this exactly?” I dropped my dressing gown on a cushion and unfolded the cloth. It was light and soft. Linen, most likely, the shade of green like that of willow leaves. The single gold line that embellished its borders had an occasional leaf on it. It was the soul of simplicity compared to the garments I’d worn to the ball.

_Of course. This is for a picnic._

To wear or for the blanket?

I draped the cloth over my shoulder and felt along the edges for some kind of fastening.

Sherlock flung a black cloth over his shoulder. In a couple deft movements, he drew two sides together at one hip, pinned it and did the same at the other hip. 

My hand darted out and under the soft drape.

Sherlock glanced back at me with half-closed eyes and my other hand found its way to his skin as well.

“We should gather your plants first,” he said, taking a step back, “and pin you up a bit.”

I looked down and snorted. “Probably, a good idea.” My cloth was hiding about as much as a towel over the shoulder would after a bath.

Sherlock’s fingers fluttered along the edge of the cloth and unfastened the simple brooches in one corner. “There,” he said, around the one he was holding between his lips. He drew the cloth over my obvious interest in what was under his, and pinned it in place. He secured the other side and stood back.

The folds of the draping didn’t make my interest nearly as clear as a pair of trousers would have done. “That’s convenient,” I remarked.

“Hmm.” Sherlock picked up his sandals. The wings opened half-way and closed again. He put one foot up on the edge of the window seat and began lacing them up. “Yours are there,” he said and tilted his head towards the corner of the seat. “With a sack for your plants.” 

The soft leather shoes were very similar to the ones in which I had danced, but with less embroidery.

“No wings for me, then.”

Sherlock switched feet and shook his head. He finished lacing and stood, eyes wandering from the top of my head to my toes, gaze lingering there.

They wiggled a bit under the scrutiny.

Then, Sherlock was up on the window seat, one leg over the sill. “Come,” he said and was gone.

_He didn’t answer you._

Nope.

I grabbed the shoes and bag and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 prompt: #19 (Faith)


	12. Mid-summer

The meadow grass was soft and cool beneath my bare feet. I passed the log on which the faun should have been seated with barely a sideways glance. 

_Where you should have been seated._

Not me.

_Yes, you. ‘Three-Continents’ Watson personified – the satyr. Goat haunches and all._

More a faun, than a satyr. A lover rather than a lecher.

_‘Afternoon of the Faun’, is it?_

I suppose. I never had to go hunting; they always seemed to come to me. 

_I think you know what that was now. An instinctive charmer, practicing his art without even realising, but practicing it nonetheless._

Stop distracting me. I am hunting now.

Sherlock was disappearing under the trees, blending with the shadows. I darted into the woods, picking up speed, heedless of the twigs snapping beneath my feet. Here a flash of iridescent blue-black in a stray sunbeam betrayed where he’d reached. There a darker shadow between the trees. Always ahead.

I wanted to shout his name, but refrained. Who knew what else was in these dreaming woods besides droning bees and singing birds.

_He probably knows._

Don’t start with that again.

I caught up to him at the edge of a pond, looked left and right at the shimmering expanse of water.

_Looks more like a river._

It does, but I want to call it a pond.

_Why?_

I shook my head. Don't know.

“Here,” Sherlock announced, pointing.

I leaned over the bank. Lacy tendrils of green floated just below the surface of the water. They were a lighter green than the plants at the foot of the river stairs.

“New growth,” Sherlock supplied. “Summer’s only beginning.”

I stooped towards them.

Sherlock grabbed me around the waist.

“Let’s not go swimming just yet,” he said. “Lie down…”

…in lavender. 

I drew in a sharp breath.

“…on the grass,” Sherlock said.

In the same voice. 

“Reach down from there to cut them.”

I did as he suggested, wiggling forwards so my shoulders and arms hung over the gentle slope of the bank.

A heavy weight settled on my thighs.

I closed my eyes. Yup, here would be fine.

_Satyr._

Faun.

Sherlock leaned forwards. “Cut as far down the stem as you can. The chemical you need for the liniment is more concentrated in the stems than the leaves.” His breath tickled my ear.

_Concentrate, you lascivious fool!_

Not easy at all. 

The inside of Sherlock’s thighs were pressed against the outside of mine. My head sagged against my upper arm. The sun was warm on my head, his thighs cool against mine.

“Gather your cuttings first, John,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my shoulder. “Fill your bag to bursting, then I’ll take you right here. You needn’t move at all.”

I rethought the theory of human spontaneous combustion.

He slipped the chain to my moon blade over my head and dangled it near my hand.

“Careful not to cut yourself. Best not to attract anything in the water.”

“Some escaped piranha fish living here?” I quipped, feeling quite proud that I was able to. I grasped the blade’s handle.

“Nothing so pedestrian,” he replied, settling his weight more fully along my back.

I gasped.

He chuckled.

I could feel it.

“We wouldn’t want you to fall in.”

Nor burst into flames.

_The water would be useful in that case._

I reached down into the water with both hands and began to cut.

Sherlock remained with his head next to mine until I held out a handful of cut plants. He took them and sat up.

At least the crushed grass beneath me formed a bit of a cushion.

_And a bit of friction._

That, too.

He shifted to the side. Water dripped onto my back. A small cloth settled on top of the droplets, something wet fell on top of both, then they were rolled up together.

“Don’t stop cutting,” he admonished.

I set to.

We continued until he hung the bag over the bank where I could see it. It was indeed bulging with my harvest.

It swung out of view.

I slipped the chain of the moon blade over my head and eased my arms back so my elbows rested on the top of the bank. My muscles appreciated the respite.

I heard the bag land on the grass. “Do you want to move somewhere more comfortable?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He leaned forwards.

Melting was perhaps what I would do, rather than go up in flames.

“Then reach back into the water and hold onto the stems. They are very strong,” he said, sitting back. “And they’ll like it.”

My eyes opened rather wide at that, but I stretched my arms down under the water again.

“Good,” Sherlock said and I heard the smile in his voice.

The plants started to twine about my wrists and I drew in a breath.

This time he chuckled and pushed my garment higher onto my back.

A light breeze blew past my buttocks and Sherlock’s hands grasped my hips. “Lovely, aren’t they?” he murmured, but to whom I wasn’t sure.

_Well, you’re the only one here._

The water plants curled around my forearms.

Not so sure about that.

Sherlock slid down towards my knees, eased my buttocks apart.

The breeze tickled and I giggled. It felt so much like a mischievous tongue.

“You’re in your own realm now, John,” he said and pressed home in one long slide.

I gasped.

The tendrils about my arms tightened. The breeze ruffled my hair and Sherlock pressed deeper.

“I've been waiting so long to have you here,” he whispered, before I felt his teeth at my neck.

A faint tremor ran through me. “Why were you waiting?”

“I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t say no…” he murmured.

My hips raised off the ground, lifting us both. “Like that’s likely,” I breathed at him. 

“…to anything.”


	13. The Pipes are Calling

I must have dozed. Sherlock, too, heavy against my back.

It was the sounds of pipes, high and clear from across the water, that had roused me. Over the cloud of dark curls by my jaw, I peered along the bank. The sun was lower, golden between the trees and across the rippling surface of the pond. There was a fragrance upon the breeze. I took a deep breath and Sherlock stirred.

“There’s music,” I said, “over there.” I attempted to point, but my arm had fallen asleep as well, so the motion was more a flopping in the general direction of the sounds. I wiggled my fingers. The plants had let go, except for one tendril I could still feel around one wrist. As I continued to flex my fingers, it slipped away. Apparently, they didn’t bear me a grudge for my pruning.

_Should have considered that before you put you hands back in, unarmed._

He wouldn’t have asked me to do it, if they were going to drag me in and drown me.

“It’s like trimming hair,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s being pulled up by the roots that they get cross about.”

“Good to know,” I said, burying my face in his hair and inhaling the scent of lavender. My pulse sped up. “And the music?”

“That is where we are going,” Sherlock, said as he drew away.

“Ah.” Less nimbly, I disentangled myself from the herbage beneath me and stood. Breathing was easier. I stumbled.

Sherlock grabbed me by the arm.

“Legs have gone to sleep, too,” I remarked, smoothing out my sorely rumpled cloth and brushing away various leaves pressed into my skin.

Sherlock chuckled.

I looked up from my task

He was staring at the grass we had flattened.

I followed his line of sight and saw the patch of tiny daisies growing in the middle of it. I glanced sideways at Sherlock.

He inclined his head in that graceful way of his.

“Right,” I said, remembering the flowers that had sprang up in the wake of our dance steps at the ball.

Sherlock bent down and whisked my bag and something on a long cord from the ground.

I took the bag from him and slung it over my shoulder. “What’s that?” I asked, raising my chin at the other item

Sherlock held it out. “Take it.”

_Not an answer._

I took the strap, which was made of plaited grass and peered into the pouch that dangled from it.

“Pan pipes,” I said, drawing them out. 

“They were on the log,” he said with a wave of his fingers, “where we stepped through. I thought you might like to play with the others.” He turned away and began to walk.

_Something there._

Yeah.

He wasn’t haring off as he so often does, but ambling along the bank. He’d set his cap upon his head. Its wings half unfolded, then settled tight against his curls.

I caught up with him in a few strides.

“I don’t know how to play this,” I said as I came alongside him.

“Trust your ear.” He leaned to the side and snapped off a long spike of small purple flowers as he went. An inconvenienced bee buzzed after it.

I turned the instrument over, considered it from all sides. Its pipes were made of hollow branches in gradually decreasing size. The bark had been stripped away and the wood oiled. The joins where smaller twigs must once have grown remained, like knuckles on fingers. The wood of each pipe was a different shade. They were bound together with a thick string of coarse, twisted fibres.

“I’ve heard them played, but I’ve never seen one up close.” 

“They wouldn’t have been like this, even if you had.” He tucked the stalk of flowers behind his ear. The bee landed and wriggled into one of the bell-shaped flowers.

_You have anything with you for bee stings, Watson?_

I don’t have much of anything with me.

I eyed the bee. It was buzzing deep in the flower.

The wings of the cap fluttered, moving it closer to Sherlock’s other ear.

_Sensible._

I ran the tip of my forefinger along the longest pipe. There was a hill top, windy at dusk. My finger jumped away. I considered the next pipe, rubbed my fingertip along it. The edge of a quiet lake. I exhaled and touched the next. A grove of trees, shady at midday.

“Try it,” Sherlock urged.

I stopped walking, held the instrument with both hands, fingers crossing several pipes and brought them close to my lips.

Someone, pale and slim, moved in the shade beneath the trees.

I closed my eyes. Someone, pale and slim, swam across the lake. I sighed.

The pipes sang.

My eyes opened wide.

Sherlock had stopped a few steps ahead. He turned back to me, a glimmer of a smile on his lips. “Play, John,” he said softly.

So, I played.


	14. Rose Thorn

I couldn’t manage to play more than a note or two as we walked, so now and then we paused and I tried longer combinations of notes, the wooden pipes smooth beneath my fingers, the images clear in my mind’s eye. 

The sounds were always sweet, none of the squawks and screeches with which novice woodwind players are more familiar than they would like to be. As a boy, I had been banned from playing my tin whistle in the house, so out in the garden or down the street I had gone. In addition to my discordant mistakes, the whistle had often played my complaints or other things I didn't say aloud.

The one exception to the pipes melodious sounds was when I stepped on a thorn. I had troubled myself to don my shoes when we resumed our journey, but the thorn went right through the supple sole.

Sherlock had turned with alarm from his inspection of some reeds growing by the water and fell to inspecting my foot and the shoe he had yanked off of it.

“It should have protected you from those,” he muttered, pulling the long thorn from my instep, “unless…”

“It’s hot,” I said, the burning sensation spreading through my whole foot as I spoke.

Sherlock dragged me to the bank and thrust my foot into the water practically before my bum hit the grass. Steam rose from the surface.

I stared.

“Not your usual thorn, then,” I commented, taking the shoe off my other foot and slipping it into the water by its wounded mate. “This helps.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, holding the thorn up for me to inspect. It was dry and brown, an inch long, thick at the base and needle thin at the end. It looked as though it had come out whole.

“What is it?”

“Rose,” he said.

I looked over my shoulder at the path and the trees and underbrush beyond. There was a rambling rose growing up one of the trees.

Sherlock touched the thorn to his tongue. “Someone else stepped on this and cursed it,” he said, and licked the length of the thorn. It hissed. 

I winced at the sight.

“Very careless, dropping curses mindlessly.” He tossed the thorn into the water.

“Can you tell who?”

He shook his head. “No one I recognise, but it was carelessness, not maliciousness. Give me your foot.”

I lifted it out of the water, rested it on my knee and inspected the instep. The whole foot was no longer red, just a circle around the wound about the size of a fifty pence piece.

Sherlock’s hand closed about my ankle and he leaned down.

I felt his tongue first and then his lips.

The last of the burn died out.

He sat back.

The flesh was pale. The wound was gone.

“Thank you, Doctor Holmes,” I said and looked over at him. 

He was licking his lips, his eyes narrowed.

“Do you know who now?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No, but someone inexperienced who needs better tutelage.”

I dried my feet on my cloth and put my shoes back on.

“The stitchers will be shocked to learn of this,” Sherlock said. “The wards they put on the shoes are for natural dangers, not curses. There aren’t usually curses in Summer.”

I nodded, taking it in. “A mellow place.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from my shoes to my face. “Not exactly.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Its tensions are of a different nature,” he replied and got to his feet. He held his hand out to me.

I took it and stood, shifted my weight back and forth between my feet.

“Good?”

“Yeah, it seems fine.”

The faint sound of laughter came across the water.

We both turned towards it, but nothing was visible amongst the trees.

Sherlock made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Shall we?”

I played a trill on my pipes and off we went.


	15. Lark Ascending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed posting for several days lately, so I may be able to post a few little chapters today.

We meandered along. I named the birds we heard or saw as best I could: ducks, geese, grebes, coots and two regal, jet black swans on the water; robins, doves, magpies, crows, finches, sparrows and tits among the trees.

Then, I heard what I thought was a lark and tried to imitate the notes of its song. 

The bird sang back.

I played again.

Sherlock held up his hand and a bird about the size of a pigeon with feathers of dappled brown and blue landed on his arm. 

“Not a lark, then.”

Sherlock shook his head.

The bird paraded up and down his arm, its head bobbing as it looked to the left and right before stretching his neck upwards and letting forth a long string of notes rising higher and higher and on the last note he puffed up his chest and opened his tail feathers, an iridescent fan of blues and greens and gold.

“It’s like a miniature peacock,” I said, “What is it?”

“Play his song again.”

I couldn’t begin to imitate what he had just sang, so I repeated the simpler song I had mimicked before.

The bird turned his head and fixed a bright eye on me.

Sherlock leaned down and whispered something to the bird.

His tail feathers closed. His chest deflated and he flew off.

“What did you tell him?”

Sherlock glanced sideways towards me. “That you’re mine.”


	16. Mistletoe

I didn't step on any other sharp objects as we followed the path between the tall grass and wild flowers by the water, and the trees and brush of the woods. Amidst the latter, Sherlock had been foraging, and when he delved further in amongst the brambles, I would lean against the nearest tree and play. 

I was managing to call forth simple snatches of melody and was rather pleased with myself for doing so, although I had to refrain from smiling about it because it changed the sound of the notes. So, all was quite idyllic until my stomach grumbled most crudely just as I had paused my piping to take a deep breath. I quickly blew a few notes upon the pipes as though to cover up my lapse, but it was too late.

Sherlock appeared from the bushes, leaves in hair and cap in hand. He held it out to me. It was brimming with berries, red and purple and black.

I reached for one, my mouth already watering.

Sherlock drew the cap away, took a raspberry from the top and offered it to me.

I took it straight from his fingers with my mouth. I may have licked them a bit in the process.

_Tease._

He started it.

_Mature._

I had to close my eyes at the taste. It was everywhere in my mouth. Summer itself. I swallowed. Felt another berry tapping against my lips and opened my mouth like a small bird for it and Sherlock dropped the berry in. There was a third and a fourth and a fifth, then they stopped.

I opened my eyes.

_Impatient._

Sherlock opened his hand, palm up. There were three berries on it: another raspberry, a blueberry and a blackberry.

I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow at him.

He raised one back.

_A test? How well have you been studying your botany?_

Not nearly well enough.

I pointed at the blackberry. “Don’t they ripen at the end of summer?”

Sherlock smiled, grabbed my hand and dropped the three berries in it. “Elsewhere, they do.”

I popped the raspberry in my mouth. It tasted sweeter than the others.

_From being so long in his hand?_

Getting romantic, are you?

_Considering possibilities._

Sherlock inclined his head towards the woods. “Leaves turn towards the sun, roots grow towards water. Sometimes, plants find what they want on a rainier day, in a different month.”

I stared down at the blackberry. “It went to September?”

“Apparently.”

“Why would it come back?”

“Homesick, perhaps.”

_Homesick for a time._

I don’t want any other time. 

I looked at Sherlock.

He was picking other berries out of his cap.

“I don’t want any other time,” I said and ate the blackberry.

Sherlock smiled at that and held out his hand. It was full of berries. More kinds than I’d noticed when I’d looked in the cap.

I put the blueberry in my mouth and cupped my hands to receive them all: translucent and opaque, round or aggregate, red and black, yellow and white.

“Some of these are poisonous, aren’t they?”

He stepped closer. Picked a raspberry from my cupped hands and tapped it against my mouth.

I parted my lips and he pushed it in. The flavour was bright.

He selected a currant next and fed it to me, then a blueberry, a blackberry, another raspberry, a gooseberry. Their tastes flashed across my tongue.

I felt a drop of juice at the corner of my mouth. 

He leaned down and kissed it away.

My hands were less full now. I didn’t need both hands to hold them, but I didn’t shift those left to one hand. I opened my mouth and waited for him to select another berry and bring it to my lips.

He watched as I took them in.

I opened my mouth for more.

He held up a sprig with three white berries on it.

I thought it was mistletoe, but it was completely the wrong season for them.

_A visitor from Winter?_

Maybe.

He held the sprig to my lips and, one by one, I closed my lips about its berries and pulled them off their stems.

Sherlock’s eyes were on my mouth.

I bit into the berries, loosed their sweet, sticky juice onto my tongue. I swallowed, licked my lips and ran my tongue over my teeth. My eyes closed. 

In a grove of trees, shadows moved, whispering and laughing. Against one tree a tall, pale figure leaned. He glanced at me, his eyes gleaming with a light of their own. I reached for him, but I was too far away to touch. Behind him, a taller figure coalesced from the gloom, glittering of eye, broad of shoulder and cloven of hoof. He closed his arms around my tall, pale beauty and turned him to face the tree.

I cried out, stretching my arms towards him, berries falling through my fingers. I stumbled. 

Arms closed around me.

I heard the fluttering of birds’ wings, felt their feathers at my feet.

The world spun.

Lips closed over mine.

I gasped.

A cool tongue slid over my tongue, its tip touching my palette, my teeth, my gums, round and round my mouth, over and over.

I sagged in those arms. I knew that tongue. I touched it with mine.

Backwards he bent me, like a willow wand, his arms about my waist, his chest against mine, his tongue cool and deep in my mouth.

The spinning slowed.

My muscles didn’t work.

Further back I bent. My head touched the ground, my shoulders, my legs.

The spinning stopped.

I opened my eyes.

Sherlock’s face was above me, the rest of him stretched out at my side.

“Did you just poison me?”

“A little.”

"And you're the antidote."

"One of them," he replied, his eyes fixed on me. 

I looked away. “I saw a place. A wood.”

“I thought you might.”

I glanced back at him. “What was it?”

“Where we’re going.”


	17. Over the Water...

“Here,” Sherlock said.

I paused in my playing and turned my watchful eye from the ground before my feet to Sherlock.

He was gesturing towards the water where a dam of branches and hard-packed soil stretched from our side of the water to the other bank.

I had forgotten that our journey must end in a bridge of some sort.

“It looks like a beaver dam,” I said, following him along the path to it nearly hidden by the long grass.

“It is.”

“I thought they’d been wiped out.”

“Not here,” he replied and stepped onto the narrow causeway, one foot in front of the other like a gymnast upon a beam. At his ankles, the wings of his sandals opened, beating downwards with each of his steps.

_Is he touching the ground?_

I paused and watched him for a moment more.

Possibly not.

_Take care, Watson._

“Right,” I murmured and stepped after him.

Mid-way, Sherlock stopped and pointed to the water in the direction we had traversed along its bank. It curved out of sight around a row of willows.

Carefully, I turned my head and looked towards the other side of the dam. The water continued for as far as I could see. Equally carefully, I turned my head back.

“Past Willow Bend, are the springs that give rise to the river you know as the Fleet.”

“So, it is a river,” I said, feeling oddly disappointed. “I thought it was a long pond.”

I glanced at Sherlock and he looked away from the river to me. “That’s what it is now. One of a string of them.” A faint smile curved his lips, but didn’t brighten his eyes. “You know where you are, then.”

I scowled and shook my head very gently.

“You will soon,” he stated, turning away and continuing across the dam.

I looked back over the water. The sun was behind the treetops, gilding their crowns and dappling the water near the bank we were approaching.

The pipes had fallen silent, the birds, too. They had been since we started across the water. I could hear the lap of the water against the dam.

_What are you waiting for, Watson?_

I don’t know.

Near the bank, a small fish jumped. A heron struck, held the fish in its beak above the water for an instant, then raised his head and swallowed. 

I hadn’t noticed the heron among the reeds. His beak was gold in the evening sun.

“John!”

I glanced towards the far bank. 

Sherlock stood, his arm raised, beckoning me, his skin gold in the evening sun.

I turned to face him. Set each foot before the other, gently and carefully.

At the end of the dam, between it and the bank, water rushed to the lower part of the river.

Sherlock held out his hand.

I reached for it and leapt across.


	18. ...and Through the Woods

Even when both my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I kept hold of him.

His eyes flicked down to where our hands were clasped, then he turned towards the woods and pulled me along, through the grass and flowers, and on under the trees.

I shivered in the shade.

Sherlock pulled more insistently on my hand.

I glanced back. 

The sun had sunk lower. Here and there, its beams glowed between the trees on the other side and over the water. They lit the long thorns of the brambles and the leaves of ivy clinging to some of the trees under which we walked.

I felt a tug at my cloth. Brambles ensnared the hem.

“Wait!” I called.

“Open will work on them,” Sherlock replied, urging me forward.

I whistled.

The brambles unhooked themselves, low-hanging branches swung out of our way.

_Didn’t work on his hand._

It’s I who is holding onto his.

_Fine._

Sherlock walked faster.

I kept up my humming; the brambles were thick. Otherwise, my cloth would have been in shreds after a few more steps. Faster and faster we went, the smell of crushed berries rising from beneath our feet.

The thump of a tambour reached us, a trill, then another on the pipes.

Mine were in their pouch, banging gently against my chest as we walked.

Out of the trees, something fluttered towards Sherlock, a crow, a raven...

_His cap._

It is.

Eyes wide, I watched it hover near his shoulder. A triangle I had assumed was an ornament, held one side of the cap’s rim against the other. The cap itself bulged with its contents.

Sherlock inclined his head in the direction we were walking and it flew off.

My mouth opened with a question, but Sherlock spoke first. “We’re here,” he said and a few more steps brought us into a glade full of people.

It was startling.

_How can you be surprised? You heard the music and the laughter._

I did.

But Sherlock and I had been travelling alone for hours and that had suited me better than a gaggle of strangers. 

I surveyed the clearing. At its centre, a fire burned. In it, a huge pot rested on a triangle of small logs. The bird - cap - whatever manner of creature it was, hovered high above the vessel, letting its cargo of berries drop, little by little, into the pot. Several people were tending it. One stirring, others adding things, but I wasn't close enough to see what. Someone else was breaking branches and adding them to the fire. 

_Going to be drinking that later, are you?_

I pursed my lips. As far as I could tell, the poisonous berries had gone in with all the others.

The striking of a tambour drew my attention away. The drummer sat on a log at the edge of the clearing, striking his instrument alternately with the heel of his palm and the tips of his fingers. People were sitting, here and there, on other logs or stretched out on the grass. Some rose to dance as the drummer played.

Among the trees surrounding the clearing, still others strolled or leaned against the tree trunks in murmuring groups of two or three.

I peered.

The air was still. The sky above us was a deeper shade of blue than when we crossed the river. No sunbeams had followed us to this place. The flickering of the firelight in the deepening gloom gave static shapes motion, even the tree trunks appeared to sway.

The tambour player had found his rhythm. 

The shadowy shapes moved with it.

_I believe Sherlock mentioned copulating early in this adventure._

I narrowed my eyes.

Low in my belly, my body responded to the rhythm of the movements around me and I drew in a sharp breath.

“Sherlock,” I whispered.

I felt his shoulder brush against mine. “Yes, John?” he whispered back.

“I’ve been here before,” I said.

“You must have been many times to the heath,” he replied.

“No, no. To this place, like this…like this.” I swept my free arm in a half circle and let it drop to my side.

“Oh,” he murmured, his lips right at my ear.

“Years ago.”

He hummed softly, his breath cool.

“Mike brought me, well, his friends did.” I looked around half expecting to see them there, the cast of a student production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. I’d thought it strange that they’d changed back into their costumes. They’d had on denim and t-shirts on the Tube.

Sherlock led me across the clearing. He stopped before a lofty oak. “Sit,” he said.

I stared down at the gnarled roots. A pair rose high from the ground at the base of the trunk, almost like the arms of a chair. I covered my mouth. “I’ve sat here.”

“Sit,” Sherlock repeated and lowered himself to the ground to one side of those high roots.

I went down after him, embraced by the roots, our joined hands resting on the one between us. I kept my eyes on our hands. “I was so tired.”

He snorted.

“I was. It was after my last exam. I'd stayed up all night revising, came home in the afternoon and collapsed on my bed.” I rubbed my thumb across the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I wanted to sleep for a week, but Mike came home and woke me up. It was closing night for his girlfriend’s play, she’d given him two tickets and he didn’t want to go alone…and his girlfriend had a friend in the cast…” I gripped Sherlock’s hand more tightly. “He made me coffee and eggs and toast. I was starving as well as exhausted and after gobbling up the food, I hated to say no.”

“His girlfriend’s friend sounded enticing,” Sherlock remarked. “As well she might. Mustardseed.”

“That probably clinched it,” I admitted, "my carrying on with them instead of going home when the play was over. She’d been good in her role. On the Tube, she'd been chatty, vivacious and pretty. There’d still been glitter in her hair. 

We’d spilled out of the station laughing and run across the heath.

I felt a throb in my groin. 

I looked around the glade. No one was tending the fire. Lit by its dying glow, two figures moved on the grass. The one beneath had their legs about the other's shoulders. I could hear their breathing between the drum beats, the gasp and the pant and the grunt.

I squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

"She didn’t chatter once we got here."

I tilted my head back. Something rustled up in the leaves. “It was this tree,” I said. “I'm sure. She pulled me over here. Her top was slipping off one shoulder, the moonlight reflecting off the glitter in her hair."

Sherlock hummed.

"She pressed me up against this tree trunk and had her way with me.”

He hummed again.

“I was so tired,” I said. “She scampered off and I slid down the trunk to sit here.”

Sherlock murmured something.

“I was catching my breath, my shirt-tails covering my satiated cock...which was a good thing because I was too tired to tuck myself away. My eyes were half-closed…” All around me the night had been moving. In the middle of the clearing, there had been a dancer. Pale, pale, like the moon overhead. With the sway and twirl of the dance, garments had fallen away. The beautiful dancer was a he. “...and I saw a moonbeam dance.” I lifted my free arm, stretched out my fingers. “I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t get up. I had no strength for it and then someone warm and fragrant settled on my lap and one part of me seemed to have the strength the rest of me lacked.” My arm fell back onto the root.

Sherlock whispered something too softly for me to hear.

I clenched my fingers around his.

“After that the dancer was never alone...nor was I.” I exhaled.

Sherlock was silent. 

"With nary a pause, they had come. Mostly women, but sometimes men. They’d knelt before me and I’d gazed into their faces, hoping with each new one that it would be my moonbeam, but it never was. Then, I’d looked up and the dancer was beside me, but he was not alone.”

No, not alone at all. His partner of the moment had been wild for him but the dancer's eyes had stayed on me the whole time. Skin gleaming, eyes gleaming, his panting loud above me. I had reached up, touched his thigh. Into whoever was on my lap, I had come. My eyes had closed. When I’d opened them again, my dancer was gone.

“And, then he was gone,” I said and my voice was thick.

I had slept there. In the morning light, I had made my way home and slept in my bed for what seemed like a week until my training started.

“I never came back,” I whispered. “I should have come back.”

Sherlock got up onto his knees, lifted one leg and then the other over the root and over my legs until he was in front of me.

I looked at his face. It was the face of my dancer.

He settled onto my lap. 

I parted my lips, but no sound emerged.

“This is what I should have done that night,” he said.

I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Yes,” I breathed. “I wanted you so.”

He leaned forward, kissed my eyes closed. “You seemed so comfortable,” he murmured. “I didn’t know it was your first time at a sharing tree.” He kissed my cheeks, my chin.

I tilted my head back. He suckled at my throat.

“One cannot leave the tree until dawn the first time.” He kissed my ear, my shoulder. “Everyone has to come to you.” He shifted his hips, gently.

I moaned.

“I looked for you on other nights.”

My breath hitched.

“I should have come to you.”

I closed one hand at his hip, pressed his head against my throat with the other. “I sometimes dreamt that you had.”

“I always dreamt that I had,” he said.

The tambour sounded and the pipes trilled and we said the rest without words.

*** 

I came to with a start, chilled to the bone. My back was against something hard and wet and cold. My head whipped from side to side.

Against my chest, Sherlock grumbled.

Above us the sky was a deep grey. There was no moon, no stars. 

I clutched him close. “Sherlock, I’m not sure where we are, but it isn't the grove.”

He raised his head, bent it back. A trickle of water landed on his face and splashed onto me.

I shivered violently.

Sherlock sat up, turned left and right. “We’re home,” he murmured and stood up.

Frowning, I did the same. “Home?”

He pointed upwards and to the left. 

I looked where he pointed. I squinted. 

Behind Sherlock a light went on.

Then, I could see my balcony.

I heard a door open.

“Oh, is that you two?” Mrs Hudson called. “We were wondering whether you’d decided to stay in Summer. I wouldn’t blame you with this weather we’ve been having. I’ll get you some tea.” I heard the door close.

Cold water was dripping off my garment onto my feet. I shuddered.

Sherlock looked down at me. Water was dripping from his chin.

“I had wondered, too, whether you’d want to stay in the grove,” he said quietly. “Whether you’d say yes if I asked you to return with me.”

“Well, I don’t remember your asking, but if you had, my answer would have definitely been yes,” I said.

He smiled then. “Yes?”

“Of course, yes,” I said, and nudged him to go down the steps from the pedestal of the fountain. “Even when you haven’t shagged me senseless, I’d say yes.”

“Yes?”

“Absolutely, yes! I’d also say yes to a hot shower and dry clothes.” I nudged him towards the door which I hoped still led to the hallway.

“Yes, of course, heat,” he said and grabbed my hand.

The door led to the hallway, although the stairs seemed closer than usual and six or seven steps brought us to my bedroom door.

Sherlock opened it, pulled me inside and pulled my cloth over my head. “Heat,” he repeated and strode to the bathroom.

Water began to run.

Carefully, I lifted the pouch with my pipes over my head, set them on the desk and hurried after Sherlock into the steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image that I had in mind for this setting is from Corot's Bacchanal at the Spring, which can be viewed at Wikicommons [here](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Corot_-_Bacchanal_at_the_Spring_Souvenir_of_Marly-le-Roi,_1872.jpg).


	19. Let Nothing You Dismay

“So, how did you like Summer?” Mrs Hudson asked as she entered the library with a large breakfast tray. 

Heat rose to my cheeks. No doubt, a rosy hue came with it.

She nudged my pipes aside and set her burden down on the coffee table. “Tea?” she asked, looking up at me. “Oh, I see. Mid-summer was it?” She winked.

Mumbling my assent, I lowered my gaze and took to lifting covers off of dishes to hide my expression. Surely, I was scarlet at that point.

“First visit to Summer should always be Mid-summer,” she continued gaily, pouring the tea and setting it in front of me. She straightened up. “Oh, but it wasn’t your first time, was it?”

It’s good she hadn’t handed me the cup because I would have dropped it. I regarded her, crimson cheeks and all. “You knew?”

She placed a slice of warm cake, full of fruits and nuts, on a small dish and put that next to my tea cup. “We all knew.”

I choked a bit without having taken a bite of anything.

“He was away for weeks after that visit to Summer and none of us knew where he'd gone. Mycroft finally found him on his island and talked him into coming home. He did, after a few more days. It took Wiggins three trips to get all the baskets and jars down to the apothecary. We didn't need to top up our poisons for years.”

"Oh," I mumbled weakly.

Mrs Hudson poured herself a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa beside me.

“The sea’s a wonderful source for poisons,” she continued, "different ones to those we grow here. Old Doctor Hooper was delighted. He was a talented apothecary, too, and had a great time distilling essences and concocting medicines from them. Of course, that was when he was still in good health. Sherlock assisted him with some of that – helped keep his mind off of other things.” She looked pointedly at me.

"How could you know?"

_I don't suppose she thinks you're asking about the pharmaceuticals._

She raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock wasn't the only one from the Manor who went up to the heath that summer evening."

"Oh," I murmured again and looked across to the hearth. 

The fire had burned low. 

“I didn’t understand where I was,” I continued. “I thought I was just up on the heath, tired and drunk and seeing things.”

_Didn’t understand what had been offered to you._

Didn’t understand much of anything that wasn't in a medical textbook.

“That happens sometimes,” she said, patting my arm. “If the moon and the earth and the frame of mind are right almost anyone can step through once. The heath is where it happens most, but other places open up, too, now and then. Trouble is, few know how to get back, if they want to get back, that is.”

My eyes grew round.

“’They stole little Bridgit, for seven years long…’ Well, no one stole ‘little Bridgit’, she came on her own and didn’t even think about going back for ‘seven years long’. That song always irritated me.” Mrs Hudson stirred honey into her tea rather vigorously. “The fae folk always get blamed when it’s people running away, wishing themselves away.” She set her spoon on her saucer. “Mind you, if anyone was going to steal someone, it would have been Sherlock stealing you, but he didn’t, did he?”

I shook my head and felt the heat draining from my face.

_You could have had him long ago._

I didn’t know that until yesterday.

_Ignorance is no excuse, Watson._

Isn’t it?

“What happens to those who want to go back and don’t know how?” I asked.

She tapped her fingernail against her cup. It made a ringing sound against the china.

“Mind you, most don’t want to. That’s the key thing that gets them here in the first place, wanting to be somewhere other than where they are.” She looked over at me. “Anywhere else, and wanting it with a passion.”

“Are there people I know here who came that way?”

She looked down at her cup. “Kit,” she said. “He was skin and bones when he got here. Mrs Turner and I saw to that right quick, but it took a while to feed him up.”

“But isn’t his older brother here, too?”

“They came together, one cold, wet night, when they’d been evicted from their room because Bert hadn’t made enough that week to pay their rent again.” 

“But there are shelters and social services,” I protested.

“Not then, there weren’t. There was the poor house.”

“They’ve been here that long?”

She shook her head. “Not so long before you came to us.” She took a sip from her tea and set the cup back down. “Some people step forwards when they step through. The two of them did.”

I tried to take all of that in. “Electricity must have seemed as magical as the other things that happen around here,” I said.

She smiled at that. “It was a lot for them to take in.”

I smiled at her turn of phrase for an instant.

“I wished to be anywhere else once,” I said. 

“No, you did not,” Mrs Hudson replied. 

My eyes squeezed shut and I grimaced with the pain. I heard my words again. 

_Please God, let me live._

“You wished to live,” she stated. “That’s quite a different thing. If you’d wished to be anywhere else, Sherlock would have brought you home – here, right then.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again.

“You wanted to carry on with your life. Fair enough. We all make choices. So, he gave you blood. Just a little, mind. Mixed it in with whatever your doctors were giving you and so you healed.”

“I didn’t…I didn’t know,” I stammered.

_These are the days for discovering things._

Yes, indeed.

“Well, no, you wouldn’t. You were unconscious, weren’t you?” She shook her head. “Poor Sherlock. He went off to his island again, for a week or two when he got back. We could see him if we opened the window, but none of us dared disturb him. I’d leave food just on the other side, but he hardly touched it.” She sighed. “At least it was easier to reach him because of the windows. We didn’t have those before. Getting to the Island was quite the journey.” She sighed again. “So, we waited and worried and then he came roaring back. I was in the library when he raced though. He ransacked the Apothecary and disappeared somewhere else without a word to any of us.”

“He came to me a second time?”

_Well, if he came to you once, why wouldn’t he come again?_

Realised I wasn’t worth the effort, perhaps?

_Watson!_

I rubbed my hand over my face. “They thought I was going to die,” I said. “The fever was extremely high. When I was better, I managed to get a look at my medical records. Everything they were giving me, to bring the fever down, seemed to be doing the opposite. Palliative care was prescribed. And then, the fever broke and I regained consciousness.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What was left of me anyway.”

“Did you dream, John?” she asked softly.

I huffed. “That’s all I seemed to do. Couldn’t sleep for five minutes without them.”

She put her hand on my arm. “I mean, when you were ill.”

I scowled. “Ye-es, I...did." An image came back to me. “There was...a sandstorm.” I narrowed my eyes as though trying to see through the swirling grit. “It was red…sandstorms look like that at sunset sometimes.”

_What about the damned vulture._

I started. I had forgotten the bird. Nearly. 

Not a vulture though. 

“And there was a bird…huge bird…black from head to claw…diving towards me through the red air with talons outstretched…” I blinked. “I haven’t thought about that dream since I was in hospital. I haven’t had it since then.” I pursed my lips. “I suppose the bird was Death.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “Quite the opposite, dear. That was Sherlock snatching you back from him.”


	20. Oak

I stood before the low apothecary door, hands on my knees, taking in huge gulps of air. 

I had searched everywhere else I could think of, even unlatched the window of the beautiful lute player and peered out. Salt spray had stung my eyes, and the rocky landscape had felt empty, so I had closed it again.

_Why would he be there?_

I don't know. Maybe he needed a poisonous fish.

_Admit it, Watson, you were just curious._

No, no, it's something else. I don't know what. OK, fine, I was a little curious.

Up to the minstrel gallery I had gone, checked the fencing room, double-checked the laboratory, scanned my bedroom, the bath, the courtyard, the upper kitchen, walked a little faster after each disappointment. Ran.

_He could have gone out._

The thought had stopped me in my tracks for a moment. I had turned in a full circle in the front hall.

No.

I had turned again, more slowly, know he was inside.

Like a compass needle, I had stopped rotating facing the elevator. I had no patience for it and had run down the spiral stairs, circling its shaft.

Breath regained, I straightened up and paused.

_What are you waiting for now, Watson?_

I placed my hand against the dark oak of the door, the heel of my palm brushing against one of the long iron hinges.

I snatched my hand away, bit my lip. The skin at the base of my thumb blistered as I watched. I pressed it to my mouth, ran my tongue over it.

The hall reverberated with the blows of pommels against the door. Axes slashed at the oak, sticking in the thick wood. The echoes grew louder, bouncing off the brick walls. 

The door held.

I stared over my hand at the wide door timbers. Round depressions and deep gouges marred its beautiful grain. Long scratches scarred the iron hinge straps, their edges serrated with nicks and dents.

I felt the oil splashing against the wood, heard the sizzle of the torches that lit it. Flames licked up the thick planks. Black smoke filled the hall.

The door held.

The ends of the hall closed. The smoke thickened.

The sound of coughing echoed about me, the clang of swords and the thud of bodies falling to the flag-lined floor.

The ends of the hall opened; water roared through and the bodies were swept away with it. The axes fell to the floor. The water evaporated.

I swayed as my vision cleared. I took a deep breath, lowered my soothed hand, and stepped closer to the door.

“Sherlock,” I called, “may I come in?”

Silently, the door swung open.


	21. Brooding

Into the dimness, I stepped. 

Behind me, I heard the door close.

Far in the distance, a light glowed, yellow and orange and white at its centre. By it, I could see the fireplaces on either side of the room, both their hearths cold and dark. The bench by the door was as I remembered seeing it last, but the workbench along the wall facing the door was gone. The wall out of which it had been carved was gone. The flint-paved floor sloped down to that distant firelight.

It flared as I watched, throwing sparks into the darkness, throwing light on the clay walls that carried on down the incline and the stout timbers that divided the clay into sections. The flames settled. The walls were lost, once again, to darkness.

_Well, this is new._

I sat on the edge of the bench, blinking slowly, my eyes readjusting to the dimness. I leaned against the wall, the bumps of moonstone in the clay familiar against my back. Beneath me, the cushions rustled. I rubbed my hand against the surface beside me. Soft, dense fur slide past my palm. I pressed down. The straw padding beneath the fur rustled again.

Or old.

_Are you just going to just sit here, Watson?_

I’m getting my bearings.

_Best to get a torch._

I doubt one would work here.

_Not that kind. The kind on the wall above your head. Look about, Watson!_

I twisted around. Barely visible next to the door, was a bracket, and in its metal basket…something. I reached up, grasped the something…a wooden something, and pulled it out.

OK, fine. I didn’t notice it.

_Humph._

I sniffed. I could smell the resin. I touched the tip of the branch. It was wound about with course cloth. I took my hand away and hummed.

The cloth began to smoulder.

I hummed louder.

The cloth burst into flame, which blinded me for a moment to the darkness.

I held the torch aloft and let my eyes adjust once more.

_Onward._

Right. Hopefully, no more skirmishes being fought down the slope there.

_I doubt anything that wasn’t invited in ever got by that door._

I glanced at the stout, oak door.

_Quite possibly not._

I stood and walked cautiously towards the distant light.

*** 

“That took you a while.”

I grinned at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

He stepped out from behind his workbench, naked beside his fire, skin gleaming in the light, silver dragon twining about his neck.

I stared, licking my lips.

“Not keen on safety gear, I see,” I said after a bit.

“Clothing’s flammable,” he said.

“Right, yes. I see,” I rambled, watching the muscles beneath his glistening skin move. 

He raised a hammer, brought it down on something in the fire. 

Sparks flew. Some landed in his hair, glowing a moment before fading. Others landed on his shoulders, sizzled and fell.

“Things looking a little different from the last time I came down to the apothecary,” I said, looking at nothing but his sinuous movements. Somewhere near I could hear water.

He glanced at me, then returned his attention to whatever metallic thing was in the fire. He struck again with his hammer. The metal rang with a beautiful note.

“So much is opening to you,” he said and struck again.

The walls about us echoed with the sound.

“Passed some sort of battle in the hallway on the way in,” I said.

His dragon was spiralling around his arm down to his elbow and back, his scales aglitter.

My eyes dropped lower.

“Ah. Which one?”

I smiled at what I saw. He felt my eyes on him. 

“Some blokes shouting and banging on the door with the hilts of their swords, then trying to hack their way through it with battle axes,” I managed to say, as I watched his buttocks flex as he raised his arm and brought it down again.

The sound reverberated for a very long time. I didn’t want it to fade away. 

“They failed though,” I added, "and were washed away by a flood."

“No one who wasn’t welcome ever made it through Door or past River.” He gestured with his head, left and right. “This was our first refuge. The core of the Manor. Our long barrow.” He tilted his head back the way I had come. “And that door’s made from the tree who grew above it and whose roots blocked the way in to those who would intrude.”

“Door burnt my hand,” I said, holding up my left hand.

Sherlock scowled.

“It’s all healed now.”

His brow smoothed and he struck the metal again. “He knew I was making a surprise,” Sherlock said. “His methods are severe.”

“Well, the blisters are all gone and I don’t know what you’re making, so I can’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock smiled, put down his hammer and picked up a pair of tongs. “No one to tell,” he said.

I drew in a breath. “Speaking of telling, Mrs Hudson…”

“She remembered to ask you about the willow?” Sherlock interrupted.

I turned my head. “What about the willow?”

“Archie saw your branch in the kitchen and wants to take a couple cuttings from it, to root them. He’d like to plant them either side of the river stairs. Their roots help shore up the banks. He asked her to ask you about it.”

“That’s fine,” I said, “I’d like that, but she didn’t mention it. It was something else she told me.”

“Oh?” Sherlock lifted the metal out of the flames and set it on the work bench on the other side of the fire. He selected a rasp from his tools and set to indenting and filing the cooling metal. I still couldn’t see what it was.

“She told me about two trips you took to Afghanistan a couple years ago,” I said.

“Ah.” He filed a bit more vigorously.

I stepped a little closer, but the heat of the fire stopped me from going further. “I wanted to thank you.”

Sherlock looked at me over his shoulder. “You’re not annoyed?”

“That you saved my life? Twice.”

“I didn’t get your permission,” Sherlock said, continuing to file away.

“I’ve treated people who were unconscious, delirious,” I said. “It’s not always possible to have a conversation.”

“True.” He placed the metal back in the fire, worked a bellows to make it burn brighter.

I took a step back from the heat. “But how did you know I was dying?”

“Aaah,” he said, and took the metal back out of the fire. He walked away and ducked out of sight.

I heard the hiss of water boiling, saw Sherlock walking back. 

_So there is water down here._

“A side channel of the river,” he explained, setting the cooled metal aside on the work bench and placing something else in the flames.

I waited.

His dragon reared up on his shoulder, unfolding his silvery wings.

Out of the darkness, his mate flew, and landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. The two circled each other, wings half-open, chittering to one another. Then, the gold one launched himself at me, swooping round my head enough to make it spin before finally settling on my shoulder.

I raised my hand and stroked down the scales on his back. 

He twined himself around my neck, then climbed up into my hair, his claws scratching lightly against my scalp as he went. 

I reached up and touched the tip of his tail with my forefinger. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” I said and he wrapped his tail around my finger.

“They've got a clutch, across the canal,” Sherlock said. “He’s been brooding.” He picked up a dish from the workbench and held it out to the dragon.

“Oh,” I said as the dragon launched himself from the crown of my head and landed on the rim of the dish. “I didn’t know…of course, I suppose, they’d have…”

“It’s been centuries,” Sherlock said. “Three eggs, a larger than usual clutch. They’re going to be busy for a while.” He set the bowl on the bench. 

His dragon fluttered off his shoulder to join his mate at the dish.

“Yes, I can imagine.”

_Can you, Watson? What do you know about rearing dragons?_

Well, nothing, but rearing young is usually a time-consuming process.

_For fish? For mayflies? For sea turtles?_

Fine. I know nothing about it. I was just making anthropomorphic assumptions.

_Exactly. And, he hasn’t answered your question._

No.

Sherlock turned the metal in the fire.

“You recall touching my leg in the grove?”

I snorted. “I felt your skin against my fingertips for years.”

“I knew how it fared with you after that,” Sherlock said.

I stared at his back.

He struck the metal in the fire with his hammer.

The dragons didn’t even lift their heads from their dinner.

“Why didn’t you come for me before then?” I asked.

“You never asked,” he replied and struck the metal with his hammer again.

A clear note rang out.

I held my breath until the last reverberations died away.

“But when you were dying, you asked to live, so I came to make sure you did.”

His answer took my breath away. Despite the heat, I reached out until my fingers touched his back. I stroked down his spine, the names of the vertebrae echoing in my head. “I didn’t know I could call you,” I whispered. “I didn’t even know for sure that you were real.”

His muscles flexed. He hit the metal and it sang into the darkness. “Well, now you do.”


	22. Potions

“Wait, Mrs Hudson, let me help you with that,” I called as I hurried down the stairs from my bedroom and met her before she reached the landing outside the library.

“Well, all right.” She paused on the stairs and let me slide a basket full of clanking objects off her arm. “I was hoping to catch you this afternoon to see which of those you want to use,” she said, gesturing at the basket with a handful of metal rods.

I climbed back up to the landing, turned into the library and set the basket down by the coffee table with as little clatter as I could manage. “What all is in here…” 

My question was interrupted by a clang and a scrape.

I whirled around.

Seated before the hearth on a footstool, Mrs Hudson was busily hanging thick metal rods on an iron circlet.

I moved closer.

“There you go,” she said and placed the tripod over the half-burnt logs in the fireplace. “That should keep your pot at the right distance from the flames if you don’t stoke them too high.” She dusted off her hands. “Now, you need to select which pot you want to use. Mrs Turner and I poured over those instructions and we could not find any mention of it there and it makes a big difference, you know.”

_You know no such thing._

Indeed, I don’t.

I rubbed my hand through my hair. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that the pot would make a difference.”

She smiled at me and got up. “Well, let me show you what we narrowed it down to in the end.”

“Right, yes. Of course,” I replied and returned to the sofa.

She plumped herself down on one end. “OK, bring that basket up here and we’ll go through the merits of each.”

I hoisted the basket up onto the coffee table and sat myself in front of it.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Bring them out, but take your plants out first. They’re only partly dried, but I think they’ll be more potent as they are.”

I drew the river wort out and lay it near the far edge of the table and then emptied the basket of pots.

“So,” Mrs Hudson began, “there’s the iron one. A good material for cooking up most meals, but it can spoil the effect of certain ingredients depending on what sort they are.”

_Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?_

I still remember some biochemistry, thank you very much.

_I don’t mean the biochemistry of medical school, Watson._

“What sort of ingredients would be spoiled by iron?” I asked.

“Fairy flowers,” she said, “but you don’t have any among the ingredients for this.”

“Right.”

“You haven’t read up on the fae yet, have you?”

I shook my head slowly.

She pointed behind us. “Their section is along the wall by the passage to the music room. Time for that later though.”

“Yes, OK. So, iron’s a possibility.”

She picked up the next pot which shone like a little sun in the lamplight. “Now, this is a big favourite of mine, but not for general cooking. I’ve got ones lined with tin for that, but for elixirs and potions with a poisonous component to them, copper is often the pot you want. It enhances the potency of the poisonous ingredients or if your potion is to ward off poisons, it will enhance that effect as well. Hair of the dog, as it were.”

_Don’t ever upset Mrs Hudson._

I never would.

I nodded solemnly.

She picked up a pot of glass held in a metal framework with a wooden handle. “Now with this one you have to be very careful with the heat, but it’s good for delicate concoctions, perfumes or flavourings, or very subtle magic, or when the colour of the mixture is important.”

“Ah,” I said.

_Very astute contribution._

Yeah.

Setting the glass pot aside, she picked up a scratched and dented one, turning it around in her hands and smiling at it. “As you can see, this one gets used a lot. It’s tin and fine for mixtures with only a few, plain ingredients. Heats them quickly and evenly, but mind you use a cloth or thick glove to hold the handle as it’s tin, too.”

“Right.”

The next pot was silvery and covered with designs. Its handle was also metal in the shape of a swan’s neck and head. She tutted at it. “We need to retrace the inscriptions on this one, they’ve nearly been polished away. I haven’t used it in a while.” She sighed and glanced at me. “There’s so much to look after.”

I nodded my agreement.

“As you might have guessed, this one is what you want to use if your mixture affects flying or swimming. “Siròc had an injured wing one time, hydra, you know, very sharp teeth and incredibly fast, and Old Doctor Hooper made up the unguent to treat the bite in this. Right as rain in a couple weeks. Siròc was very cross, you know, and didn’t care for the smell of it on her feathers, but Sherlock talked her round.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Flew faster than ever when her wing was healed, but don’t ever mention that in her hearing.”

“No, no, I won’t.”

“Good,” she said and put the swan pot to one side and picked up another shiny one. “Bronze, this one. Very old. Served us well. Particularly good for battle injuries.”

I raised my eyebrows, but didn’t say a thing.

Mrs Hudson set it by and picked up the last pot. It was made of clay.

I reached out for it and she let me have it. It was round. My hands reached the whole way around it exactly. There were small bumps in its surface. I could feel them against my palms.

“That one was made here. Down below. Of our own clay,” she said.

I didn’t want to let go of it.

“Would it work for this potion?” I asked.

She looked me right in the eye. “You tell me,” she said.

And I knew the answer. “It will work.”

“Good, that’s settled then.” She pulled the basket up onto the table and began packing the other pots away.

I rested the clay pot on my knees, hands still clasped around it. “I suppose I should have come down to the kitchen and done this there.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No, this room likes you. Has from the start. You should do your brewing here.”

My eyebrows were still up when she turned from her packing and looked at me.

“You feel it. You explore all over the house, but this is where you spend most of your time,” she said.

I looked around the book-lined room, paused at the doors to the laboratory and again at the glowing embers in the hearth. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“So, what I suggest is that you get the fire going, move the coffee table over near it and assemble your ingredients and your instructions on it, and sit on the footstool to play your harp while your potion simmers.”

I glanced from the table to the hearth and back, picturing the arrangement and nodded.

“Only thing missing is someone to stir while you play,” she added.

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that.

“You could sing, of course, but I think the harp will be more effective. Don’t you?”

_Hadn’t thought about that either, had you, Watson?_

No. I hadn’t thought about the logistics of this at all.

“Yes, I must. I’ve only been practicing the music for it on the harp.”

“Good. I’ll send Kit up to stir for you. He and Midnight are down there having a late lunch.” She added another pot to the basket. “I could cut off a bit of your willow branch for him to stir with. Shall I?” 

I thought about that a minute. “All right, but I’ll come cut it and carry the basket down for you.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Archie already got his cuttings for rooting. They’ll look beautiful out by the steps,” she said, tucking the silver pot away.

I set the clay pot on the table. I didn’t want to let go of it, but it didn’t make sense to carry it down to the kitchen and back. I moved it to sit on top of the manuscript with the instructions in it, then stood and reached down for the basket.

Mrs Hudson was smiling up at me.

“Well, that’s lots of things settled,” she said and got to her feet with a slight hitch and a hand to her hip in the process.

I took the basket from the table and followed her to the door.

“If the pot is such an important ingredient in the brewing of a potion, why isn’t it mentioned in the recipe?” I asked.

She stopped at the head of the stairs and raised an eyebrow at me. “It could have been that the person transcribing the recipe from some other document forgot that bit, or the original document was damaged and that part was missing, but my guess is that they left it out on purpose.”

“Why?”

_Are you that naïve, Watson?_

She started down the stairs. “Because they didn’t want anyone else’s results to be as effective as theirs. Those books almost never contain the whole story. Each sorcerer has to figure those things out for themselves.”

I headed down the stairs after her. “Right.”


	23. Starlight

Chapter 23: Starlight

Walking with an open vessel full of steaming liquid requires concentration. I stepped off the final riser onto the tiles of the front hall and waited for the liquid to settle. 

I was certain Sherlock would have accomplished this task effortlessly, possibly while running, but my gait was not so smooth. And having made it so far without a drop staining the thick leather of my gloves, I decided not to court the risk of another flight of stairs and to take the lift the rest of the way down instead. 

Cradling the pot next to my chest with one arm, I opened the door to the kitchen hallway. Once past it, I took the pot again into both my hands and traversed the short distance to the lift door as though I were balancing on a tight rope. 

_And you considered yourself a sportsman._

Rugby is played in firm contact with the ground.

_Sometimes full contact with it._

My rugby days are well in the past and a gymnast, I have never been. Stop distracting me.

Once more, I pressed the heated pot against my dressing gown and with a steady pressure pulled the brass lever beside the lift down. The brass curlicues that form its door, opened. I inched over the threshold and gently pushed the lever inside up. The cage descended. 

I watched the stone steps surrounding the lift slide past and stopped breathing as the flags of the basement corridor came into view. The lift stopped noiselessly and with only the very faintest of bumps. The surface of my potion barely rippled. I hugged the pot close, nudged the lever upright and stepped cautiously into the corridor.

_No assailants in sight?_

My eyes flicked in every direction.

_Expecting someone hanging from the ceiling?_

I would not rule it out.

In the bright electric light, the passageway appeared reassuringly empty, so I switched the pot back to my two-handed carrying position and made my way to the apothecary.

Its door was shut. The hall quiet.

I leaned forwards. “Sherlock,” I whispered, “are you there?”

_How could he hear you whispering through that?_

He heard me crying out in pain from Afghanistan.

_Hummph._

The door swung open slowly. Inside, it was dark. 

I lifted my foot high over the oaken threshold and entered.

In front of me, the glassware on the workbench glinted in the light from the hall. Bunches of dried plants hung from a beam above the workbench, the scents from their faded flowers strong in the closed room. The wall, from which the workbench was carved, was solid and dark. 

_Back to normal, then._

I chuckled. Whatever that might be here.

But, the dimensions of the room were the ones with which I was familiar, the large, open hearth to my left, the smaller hearth flanked by ovens with metal doors to my right. Baskets of more dried plants on the floor here and there.

With carefully-placed steps, I went to the large hearth and set the pot on the stone where I had seen moonstones melt in the moonlight. With a hand to steady me against the chimney breast above the hearth, I leaned down and looked up the long, square chimney. Far above me, a circlet of starlight glimmered. I nodded to myself in satisfaction. It was a clear night. In time the moon would come.

_Is it moonlight you want?_

I drew back, dusted off my hands and shook my head.

I don’t know. The manuscript was silent on this point as well as about what pot to use.

_Crafty cock._

Quite possibly.

The light from the hall disappeared.

I turned towards the door and blinked. 

There was a denser shadow in the darkness.

My hand went to my chest where my moon blade hung.

“Cool it by starlight long ago,” a deep voice intoned. “It’s not in the manuscript. How did you know?”

I smiled. My hand dropped to my side.

“I didn’t. I…guessed.”

“You did not.” The shadow drew closer. The sides of its garment parted as it walked, a pale leg gleaming for a moment before disappearing into the dark folds once more.

I drew in a sharp breath and glanced back at the hearth. 

A rectangle of faint light filled the opening where the pot sat.

My eyes returned to the advancing figure. A glimpse of shin, a gleam of thigh. By my side, my fingers twitched.

The air grew colder. 

I smelt snow, reached up and brushed drops of water from the shoulder of his garment. “It’s snowing?”

“A little. Up high,” he replied and crouched down to study the pot. 

“You were up on the roof?” I asked, kneeling next to him.

“Higher,” he said, holding out his hand over the pot.

His long fingers glowed in the dim light. He rubbed them past his thumb. “Very long ago.” His garment trailed on the floor. He rested his hand on his bared thigh.

I heard a small burble and pulled my eyes away from his skin to the pot.

Small bubbles were forming on the surface of the liquid in it, popping and fading away.

“We shouldn’t be so close,” he said as he stood and stepped back, his face still hidden by his hood. “You’re warming it again.”

I heard the smile in his voice.

I followed him away from the pale, grey light. “If I didn’t guess, what did I do?”

“You felt it,” he replied. “You’re getting much better at listening to what it is you feel.”

He had slipped his hands into the sleeves of his garment and completely disappeared.

I reached out for what I gauged was his chest and felt more droplets beaded on the feathers. I stroked along the contours of his chest until I found where one side of his garment folded over the other. I slid my hand in, drew the feathers apart and pressed my lips to the cool, firm skin.

I heard more bubbles pop in the fireplace.

Sherlock took a step back and then another and another. I kept at least my fingertips touching him and thus he drew me across the room.

My demure pursuit ended in the darkest corner of the room. I pressed my palms flat on his chest and parted the feathers further. My mouth joined my hands. Suckling and nipping at the skin I laid bare, I chased the chill on his skin away.

“The fire will be lit at moonrise,” he whispered.

It took a moment for me to realise his sounds were words. I lifted my lips from his skin. “Tonight?”

He murmured in agreement close to my ear.

My thumbs traced the dimples at the bottom of his back. I didn’t want to move them away

_You can wait, Watson, you’re not an animal._

So you keep insisting.

I touched the edge of my teeth to his nipple. “There isn’t time, is there?” I whined and flicked my tongue over the moist skin.

He opened his cloak wide, then closed it around my back. “There might be time,” he murmured.

“Time not to be rushed?” I asked, stretching up onto my toes, kissing beneath his ear and his jaw, my breath becoming shorter with each caress. “I do so hate to rush.” I leaned against him, chest to chest, pressing him into the angle of the walls.

His palms stroked down my back, curved beneath my buttocks and lifted me onto the very tips of my toes. “No need to be quick,” he crooned.

I hooked one leg around his waist and climbed higher. “But we can’t be late to the fire, right?”

He hooked a finger in the collar of my vest.

I heard the cloth tear.

He pushed it and my dressing gown off my shoulders. 

They fell at our feet.

He let out a long, slow breath, clasped me about the waist and slid down the wall with me.

We landed on top of the cloth.

I settled on his thighs. His throat in easy reach now, I fell to kissing it. 

I felt a light scratch down the centre of my back. The tie of my pyjama bottoms tugged at my waist, then separated. I drew in a breath, held it. Something sharp caught in the fabric. The cloth hissed as it tore. I let out my breath in a rush, got up on my knees. 

Sherlock slouched down further, closer, closer to me.

Up my back, sharp nails traced patterns. They gripped my shoulders and pressed gently down.

Slowly, I bent my knees.

His nails dragged lightly over my thighs.

Carefully, I sank lower.

I pulled the breath out of him with a long, slow glide. “I do so hate to rush.” I smiled in the dark when I was seated on his thighs.

His nails skimmed along my hips.

In languid circles I moved them to a tune I was humming, then lifted myself up. I heard Sherlock’s head bump against the wall and leaned forward until I found his lips in the dark, and slowly, slowly sank down again.

His hands fell away from my sides.

The tune rose and fell and I rose and fell with it, listening to his breath catch at the end of every phrase.

“I hate to rush,” I whispered at his ear and resumed humming.

“Moon rises at four."

I smiled against his cheek, rocking gently back and forth, and humming a tune I had never heard.

His breath hissed over his teeth and I rocked ever so slightly faster. 

“We have plenty of time,” I said, because I felt it then, that we did, and the words I spoke had the lilt of the song I had been humming.

His hand closed around my ankle, the nails digging into the skin and I rocked faster still.

Softly, he gasped, and softly, I hummed, faster and faster, and in between the notes, I heard the potion boiling.


	24. Firelight

“Take a cap and a scarf and your gloves. You may well be warm enough walking up, but coming back after dawn, you’ll be wanting them,” Mrs Hudson said, handing me the items one by one and keeping a sharp eye on me until I’d stuffed them all in my pockets, except the scarf, which I’d hung about my neck.

She nodded at me. “You’ll thank me in the morning. You’ll see,” she added, turning to Kit and tying his scarf around his neck and pulling his cap down so it covered the tops of his ears. “Sherlock said there are snow clouds coming down from the north and Siròc said there are more coming from the east. Show me your gloves, Kit.”

Kit fished in his pockets and pulled a glove out from each. 

“Put them on and mind you keep track of them when you take them off by the fire,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kit replied and did as he was told.

Midnight jumped up on his shoulder and snuggled close to his head and began to purr.

The door to the kitchen hallway opened and Mrs Hudson turned towards it.

“Ah, Archie, there you are.”

Archie came through the door backwards trailing the long willow branch behind him.

I ducked past her to hold the door open while Archie got the feathery tips of the branch through the doorway.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, moving the tree limb further down the hall. “You should come up to the nursery and see the cuttings when you have time. They’re already rooting.”

“Already?”

He nodded. “Willow’s like that, but these were especially fast. I think they like it here.”

“I’d better come up soon before they’re trees,” I quipped and let the door close.

_You are such a wit, Watson._

He nodded again and smiled. “I can carry this to the hill for you, if you’d like.”

I gazed at the wood. It was a very big branch, but I shook my head. “No, I think I should do, but thank you for offering.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand,” he replied solemnly.

_Hit on something else by accident, did you?_

May have done.

I put my gloves on and took hold of the tree limb.

“Where’s Charlie?” Mrs Hudson asked, looking around the corridor.

“Coming, Mrs H,” a voice said and the kitchen hallway door opened gradually as the rear end of Charlie appeared carrying a box. It was filled with something that clanked and was quite heavy judging from the way he was holding it.

I caught the door and Charlie headed for Mrs Hudson.

“Just in time.” She reached into the box with both hands.

“One for you,” she said, handing a silver flask to Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Of course, it’s your recipe.” She swatted his arm. “It’s even better than mine and you know I don’t say that very often.”

Sherlock smiled, twisted off the flower-shaped cap and sniffed.

Even from where I stood, I could smell it and my mouth began to water.

Mrs Hudson stretched out her arm towards me and I took the brass flask she held. “Same for you, dear, never fear,” she said and winked at me.

_You are transparent, Watson._

The smell’s intoxicating.

_That’s the point of mulled wine._

Yeah, but it doesn’t usually smell this good.

Mrs Hudson was back in the box. “This one’s for you,” she said to Kit, handing him a larger flask that looked to be made of brushed steel. “Mulled cider, my lad, until you’re a lot older.”

Kit smiled and thanked her and tucked it away inside his coat.

_Must have some good pockets in there._

Seems to be a feature of a lot of folks’ clothes around here.

Soon everyone in the entry hall had a flask and a cloth bag that turned out to have roast nuts and dried fruits in it.

“Off you go, then,” Mrs Hudson said merrily. “We’ll have a wonderful breakfast for you when you get back.”

_An all-nighter._

I guess it would have to be if the fire doesn’t get lit until four in the morning.

Sherlock took a few steps toward the front door. Kit and Midnight followed him.

I looked at Mrs Hudson, who was still wearing simply her dress and a cardigan. “Aren’t you coming?”

She shook her head. “I don’t go every year anymore.” She patted her hip. “I’ll hear all about it over breakfast.”

It seemed a pity. The atmosphere was so festive.

_The pity is that you’ve been here almost two years and you haven’t fixed her hip, Watson._

I’m not an orthopaedic surgeon, but Mike is, and a damn good one, and he couldn’t resolve her problem completely.

_Wasn’t talking about surgery and you know it._

Well, I am working on the other approach.

_Work harder._

She gave me a nudge in the direction of the front door. “Go on, John, you don’t want to lose sight of the others.”

I looked about and realised the hallway had emptied. “All right,” I said and nodded. “Lots of stories when we’re back.” I turned towards the voices I could hear in the vestibule and dragged the willow branch in that direction.

“Be careful turning the corner,” she called as I pushed the door to the vestibule open with my hip. 

“Sure, right,” I said as I dragged the willow through the doorway. The hall door swung shut behind me, as was the front door before me. Bolted even. But the vestibule was empty.

_They left you behind._

Will you stop! No one left me behind. I’m not a child, or a puppy. I can find my own way. 

_He left you behind._

A bell tolled.

The whole vestibule reverberated as though the bell were directly above me.

I looked again at the bolted door; the carved vines around the bolt rustling as though in a breeze. I glanced back at the door to the front hallway; its stained glass bright. My eyes flicked to the right wall; a couple umbrellas were all that hung on its pegs. I checked the mirror to my left.

_Finally!_

The stars shone through the bare branches of a forest of trees. A ruddy glow lit one corner of the mirror. Shadows moved about in its light.

"Right," I mumbled and stepped through the pier glass, dragging the branch over the low shelf near its bottom.

“John, what took you so long?” Sherlock called, striding across the firelit grass. “Grab a torch.”

Wiggins held a stout stick to the small fire beside him. Its end took light. He took it out and offered it to me. 

A bell tolled. The sound rolled across the grass to the trees and echoed back.

I glanced up. An open wooden tower supported a large bell near the top. It glinted flame-like in the firelight. I turned my head. I could hear the rushing of water in the dark behind Wiggins.

“Where’s the Manor?” I asked.

“Not built yet. Well, not above ground,” Sherlock replied. “But this is the best time to climb to the hill.”

I took the torch from Wiggins.

He turned from me and called, “Bert, another torch.”

Through the glare of the flames, a large shadow moved.

“I could carry that for you, sir,” piped a young voice.

I peered through the flames. A small shadow detached itself from the larger one. On its shoulder two luminescent eyes glowed. 

“Kit?”

“Yes, sir,” Kit replied, walking around the fire. “Not easy to light the path and carry that branch all the way up to the hill. I can light the way for you. I’m a good torch-bearer.” 

“I’m certain you are, Corporal.” I let him have the torch.

The bell tolled.

_Hard copper bell._

I suppose it is.

“That’s sorted, then,” Sherlock said and strode off into the darkness.

Kit turned, too, but didn’t move forward while I got a good grip on the willow.

Wiggins lit two torches. Bert emptied a bucket of water onto the fire. The fire hissed. He emptied another. The darkness edged closer.

From out it, up ahead, I heard Archie’s and Charlie’s voices.

I nodded at Kit and he moved towards them. I followed behind in the torch’s light. After us, Bert and Wiggins fell in. 

As we left the clearing, the bell tolled. Far in the distance, another answered.


	25. Acorns

Beyond the clearing, the sky shrunk to a narrow band of stars sparkling through the bare branches of oak and ash interlaced above our heads. Around us, the torches cast their wavering glow over the twisted roots and trampled dirt that marked our path, and the dense undergrowth that crowded its verges. Our breath rose up in pale clouds. Now and then, I stubbed my toe on a tree root. 

_Graceful, Watson._

I'm not the dancer that someone we know is.

_Clearly._

Midnight hissed. Kit switched his torch into his left hand and walked closer to my side.

I patted his shoulder. “All right, Corporal?” I peered over his head into the bushes.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered and leaned a little nearer. “The woods seem darker than I remember.”

Midnight growled.

Behind us, Wiggins began to whistle. After a few notes, Bert joined in. Next to me, Kit began to hum.

 _Do you know the tune, Watson?_

No…I don’t think so.

Ahead of us, a deeper hum rose up and then Sherlock began to sing.

_Words?_

I can’t tell.

The air stilled. The torchlight brightened. 

I sniffed, took a deeper breath. Over the scent of damp soil and mouldering leaves, it floated - the scent of roses, like the white ones surrounding my balcony - climbing roses with thick stems and very long thorns. 

I stared into the trees for a sign of rambling roses, but it was too dark to see beyond the torchlight.

Kit took a step ahead of me, held his flame higher, humming all the while. Midnight's tail lashed.

The light and the song merged into an aura around us and I confined my gaze to the path ahead, picking my way over the gnarled roots, dragging the willow behind me.

Our pace was steady.

The fragrance followed.

*** 

A flurry of shots broke through the song. A score of feet trampled the underbrush.

_Ambush. Up ahead._

I halted, clasped both my hands about the willow and hefted it to my shoulder like a club, eyes flicking to left and right.

A few steps ahead of me, Kit held his torch higher. “It’s a fallen tree, sir.”

I could see it then, blocking our path. My hands tightened on the willow.

Where the tree’s roots lay, where its crown rested were equally obscured by the shadows, but the trunk and two main branches nearly as thick had missed crushing us by the length of a few strides.

Kit inched closer to it. Archie and Charlie jumped atop the trunk and stood, a metre or more off the ground, their torches leaving a blur of flame around them as they turned and gestured with them. They hummed more loudly. 

Behind us, Wiggins and Bert did the same.

Sherlock had stopped singing.

I held my breath, listening for a sound beneath the music – for the sound of pain.

The willow quivered in my hands.

Over the top of the tree trunk, Sherlock vaulted, his torch flame a streak of light behind him.

Slowly, I let my breath out through my mouth, told my heart to stop pounding.

“It’s uprooted, but I could find no claw marks on it. I believe it was a natural death,” he said.

_Think about the size of a creature large enough to uproot that tree._

I’m trying not to.

Sherlock grabbed my arm. “John?” he murmured.

I looked at him from beneath my brows. “Why didn’t you tell me to arm myself?” I hissed.

“Let’s take a rest here,” Sherlock said loudly and pulled me closer to the tree. “Would a bow have helped with this?” he asked, “a dagger?” He eased the willow from my hands. “Sit,” he murmured and lowered the willow to the ground near my feet.

_He’s right about that._

I leaned heavily against the tree trunk, put my hand out to further steady myself.

“She was tired,” I said.

I took a glove off and stroked along her trunk.

The sky was white with lightening. The wind howled. Branches thrashed. Small trees fell, limbs entangled, bark ripping as they scraped past. The ground shook when they landed.

“And injured.”

“The storm,” Sherlock said.

I nodded. “Smaller trees fell that night.”

Archie jumped down, began searching the ground at the edge of the road. Charlie joined him, humming as ever.

Midnight leapt off Kit’s shoulder and walked along the trunk, sniffing.

Wiggins was making holes in the ground with the pointed end of a stave I had not noticed him having. He wedged his torch in the hole and made another for Bert’s torch. 

Kit found a knot hole for his torch and began searching the ground on his side of the verge. After a minute, he held his hand out towards me. In his palm, was an acorn.

Charlie came closer. Even in the flickering light, I could see his jacket pockets were bulging. “We could plant some down by the clearing,” he said to Sherlock. “Plenty will already be under the leaves around here.”

Sherlock nodded.

Wiggins made another hole and Charlie shoved his torch down into it.

Bert stood up with similarly full pockets and found a knothole in the trunk near his side of the path and slotted his torch into it.

Wiggins reached out for Sherlock’s torch, then stood to his side holding it.

Sherlock turned to me, the torchlight streaming over his shoulder. “Some fortification,” he said and took his flask out from inside his coat.

One by one, everyone took a turn drinking, their fellows humming a little more loudly while one drank or ate.

Finally, I succumbed to the aroma and did the same.

_Feeling calmer?_

A little.

By my other side, Kit was crunching on nuts.

Sherlock tucked his flask away and froze, one hand still inside his coat. He peered over my shoulder into the woods behind me.

The back of my neck prickled.

A lone howl split the darkness.

Every hair on my body stood up.

_Maybe the werewolves you said you would tend in the back garden have finally arrived._

I swallowed. “There are wolves and bears in these woods, aren’t there?” I whispered to Sherlock.

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the woods.

_Gun wouldn’t work here._

Yeah.

My hand pressed against the moon blade under my clothes.

_Have to be at pretty close quarters to use that._

Yeah.

“So that’s what the songs have been for?” I murmured.

“Partly,” Sherlock replied.

Another howl answered the first. Closer.

I turned and looked over my shoulder. 

Kit was looking in the same direction. He backed up against me.

I turned and put my arm across his chest. 

Between the trees, four eyes reflected our torch light.

There was a roar from the other side of the path, then a low, deep growl.

I whipped back around, pulling Kit between Sherlock and me.

Beside us, Midnight arched her back and hissed.

Sherlock didn’t look up. His eyes remained fixed on the east side of the trail.

I glanced over my shoulder again.

The glowing eyes in the woods snarled.

Branches creaked, twigs rained down on us and a huge shadow arched over our heads, landing in the underbrush. There were yelps, and thuds, a crunch of bones, one howl of pain and then another.

I turned to face west, leaving Kit behind me.

Only one pair of eyes remained glowing in the woods and they were growing larger. 

I reached for the moon blade.

Sherlock put a hand on my shoulder as Chapalu stepped into the torchlight, a huge, grey wolf clamped in her jaws. She dropped the limp body at Sherlock’s feet and disappeared back under the trees. A moment later another lifeless form was dropped on top of the first. She sat up beside her kill.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

Chapulu blinked her golden eyes at Sherlock.

I looked up at him.

His eyes gleamed in the firelight. He closed them slowly.

Chapalu huffed, seized one of the wolves by the neck and disappeared beneath the trees.

I exhaled slowly.

"Her territory," Sherlock said softly. “That was why we didn’t bring weapons.”

***


	26. Star-scattered

To the rhythm of the music, we climbed the increasingly steep trail, and although I did not know the notes to sing, my feet marked out the beat.

_Why don’t you even try to hum along with them?_

Because a wrong note could be a very serious thing.

_Excuses._

I adjusted the willow against my shoulder. Long and heavy as it was, I had found it easier to shoulder it than to continue to pull it over the uneven ground. 

_Must be getting fit, Watson._

When have I not been fit?

_You wish to be reminded?_

Recuperating from an injury and an illness is not the same thing at all.

_If you say so._

I pressed my lips into a thin line. A growl of frustration escaped anyway.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised.

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I murmured.

He looked me up and down before returning his attention to the slope before us.

The smell of cooking came first, the distinctive aroma of grease dripping onto an open fire. My stomach found that interesting enough to make its own growling sound.

_Refined, Watson._

Involuntary.

As I climbed, another part of my anatomy made its interest known. I scowled in puzzlement and then I caught a whiff of lavender.

_Lab animal._

Maybe.

I took a deeper breath. 

A few minutes later, the sound of voices began to be heard over the clatter of the breeze through the bare branches above us.

“Nearly there,” I concluded.

Sherlock nodded.

The path took a sharp turn upwards, the roots crossing the trail serving more as steps than impediments. I felt that in my thighs. 

_Maybe not so fit._

Be quiet.

The path widened. A wave of speech and song washed over us as the trees gave way to trampled grasses.

The last few steps were up actual stairs cut into the hillside and edged with rough-hewn timbers, and then, we were at the top. 

Our humming stopped.

I came abreast of Sherlock. 

Wiggins and Bert slipped past us with their bundles of oak branches under their arms and their torches held high. Archie and Charlie had already strode forward with theirs.

“May I go with them, sir?” Kit asked.

I patted his back and nodded. 

He handed off the torch and scampered after them, his freed hand on Midnight’s back to steady her on his shoulder, his other arm around the fallen oak's branches he had gathered. He caught up with his brother and Wiggins just before all three were swallowed by the throng around an oak such as I have never seen.

My head tipped back as my eyes travelled up the trunk to the sky blazing with stars above it. I hadn’t seen stars like that since the mountains of Afghanistan.

Sherlock took my arm and guided me away from the end of the path, my eyes still on the sky.

“Do you recognise where we are?”

I wrenched my gaze away from the star-scattered heavens and scanned the wide meadow in which we stood. It was ringed with trees in all directions, but the way we had come. I turned around. Here the trees stopped well below the hilltop, leaving the view open to the south. I saw only the crowns of trees and a vast field of stars. One streaked across the sky.

“The top of Parliament Hill, long before there was a Parliament to see,” I replied, confident of my answer. “So why were the trees cleared in this direction?”

Sherlock gestured with his left hand. “The moon will rise over the trees there.” He flung out his right. “And it will set there.”

“Almost its whole arc will be visible looking south from here,” I said, glancing up at him.

He smiled. “Exactly.”

Two shooting stars streaked towards the trees behind him.

I searched my memory. “This isn’t the time of year for a meteor shower.”

“Time is particularly flexible up here,” he said. “You’ll see.” He turned back towards the crowd. “Shall we deliver our branches?”

I’d almost forgotten the weight on my shoulder, forgotten why I'd brought it with me. My grip tightened on the willow. “I’ve become rather accustomed to it.”

Sherlock focussed on the branch. “You’ll have two of him by the river steps,” he said. “If you help Archie tend the cuttings, they’ll grow faster.” He reached out and stroked the branch.

The willow grew warm against my shoulder.

“Won’t he?” he asked, but he wasn’t addressing me.

The willow quivered.

“How the creatures of the earth do love one another,” he murmured and drew his hand back, “but the fire loves them, too.”

His voice was soft and low, like the gentlest of breezes through winter trees. Over his head, the sky was criss-crossed with falling stars.

***


	27. Treetop

It was warm inside the crowd. The flow of people wending their way in and out of it was like a dance. 

Sherlock led us in, long fingers wrapped firmly around my arm as we slid deeper into the thrum of conversation and song. 

Unlike Sherlock and I, some had kept their torches and held them high. The flickering of their flames shed an unsteady glow over us. Faces blinked in and out of the existence as they passed.

I held the willow close against my chest. Made myself as streamlined as I could.

And then he paused, pulled me forward the last couple steps to stand in front of him, letting go of one arm and seizing the other, holding me there, at the centre.

Before me, the wood for the fire rose like a barricade, far above my head. Branches of all sizes had been woven together with dried grasses and vines, interstices stuffed with withered leaves and tiny twigs. It was not so much a stack as a structure, meant not to crumble at the first lick of flame, but to endure as the tinder within burned.

I reached out to touch, pinched a cluster of leaves. They fell to pieces, leaving only a hint of a fragrance behind. I sniffed my gloves. It was stronger on them.

_Lavender._

I peered more closely, spotted the thorny branches of bramble and rose, withered flowers still on the vine.

_Maybe people store them up for months to bring here._

Maybe. All the evidence of autumn to be erased by flame.

Sherlock tossed his bundle of oak branches high above my head.

I couldn’t hear it land over the hum of the crowd, but I saw a tremor shiver down the branches in front of me.

He held out his flask to me then.

I steadied the willow in the crook of my elbow and uncapped the flask. Steam rose up and I closed my eyes a moment before taking a sip. I held it on my tongue before swallowing. It made its way known all the way down, warm and a little tart, but not tart enough to mask the taste of rose and lavender. “Yours is a little different from mine,” I said, handing the flask back.

“Your blood,” he replied. “Your wine has mine.”

“The tartness isn’t just the rose hips?”

He tipped his head back and took a long swallow. A stray drop lingered at the corner of his lips. It was caught by the tip of his tongue. He leaned down, eyes sliding to me as he recapped the bottle and tucked it away. “Nope.”

_You do have a tart side._

It’s getting tarter.

I took my flask out and drank. It was far sweeter. I licked my lips. I should have recognised the taste. My blood warmed. I pursed my lips. He does have a sweet tooth.

_Surprised he likes the taste of you._

Yes, but he does.

Looking down on those dark curls, sliding my hands through the silk of them as he drank his fill.

My blood grew warmer still.

I held my flask up to Sherlock. 

He shook his head. “I’m good.”

You are. 

I stowed my flask.

“Shall I throw your willow up for you?” he asked.

I could feel the warmth of the branch through the thick wool of my coat. I stroked the bark before holding it out to him. “He’s keen to go.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gripped the bough in the middle, took a step back into the crowd, and threw it like a javelin.

It flew at a sharp angle and disappeared over the top, not even the torn end of it showing over the edge.

I remained staring at the point where it had disappeared from sight.

“Shall we repair to our campfire? Wiggins will have it going well by now. You’ll feel the chill when we emerge into the open.” He turned towards the woods and I turned with him. “We can finish our wine while we wait for the moon.” 

A bundle of branches sailed over my head. 

_Time to cede your place to others, Watson._

I nodded and took Sherlock’s arm. Together we eased into the throng.

After several steps, I glanced back, hoping to see the willow’s smaller branches waving in the breeze from the top of the pile.

Instead, I saw it. I stopped and turned, my eyes growing wide, wondering how I could have missed it earlier. My arm slipped from Sherlock’s and I lunged back, swivelling around people as I went.

Back at the front, I flung myself at the stacked wood, hands scrabbling for a handhold, one foot already pressing down on a large timber near the bottom.

Sherlock was behind me in an instant.

“John?”

“The oak,” I panted, tipping my head and shoulders all the way back. I could see the very tip of the massive tree like that. It wasn’t on the other side of the meadow, between the crowd and the woods, as I had thought. It was in the centre. “Why?” 

_Are you going to cry, Watson? Here?_

I gulped down some air because there didn’t seem to be any in my lungs anymore. 

Sherlock leaned over my shoulder, his face next to mine.

“Was she blighted?” I whispered. “Is that why?” It was hard to tell at this season, at this distance, but I didn’t feel it.

Sherlock shook his head.

I clutched at the branches, shifted my weight onto the foot already wedged in the pile. How fast could I scale it?

_Without it all collapsing beneath you? And to what end? Are you mad?_

I need to touch her, to understand. 

I lifted my other foot. It caught on something. I pulled. My ankle protested, but my boot would not budge.

“Untangle it for me, Sherlock,” I pleaded, yanking harder. If it had been a shoe, my foot would have been free, but the boots were laced tight. “Please.”

_You are crying, Watson. What is the matter with you?_

She’s going to be burnt alive.

I took a shuddering breath and let go of one branch. I’d unlace my bloody boots and climb in my stockinged feet if I had to.

I stumbled. Down onto my knees I went, hand out to break my fall. 

_Smooth, Watson._

My fingers closed around a root, gnarled and thick. I gripped it tightly.

What a small creature I was, seen from that height, but the rest of the view was vast – I could see all the way down to the river and further still. The night hid nothing from me, not the glimmer of the water in the starlight nor the outline of the South Downs beyond. And in the woods to the north and east and west, I could see the nests of squirrels and birds and the flitting of bats and owls. They were not asleep, but many were. Waking or dreaming, they were all waiting for the warmth to return, for the new green to sprout from the ash of the fire.

And then I saw the dirt, and my gloved hand holding on to the root and Sherlock crouched beside me.

“The oak is alive,” I whispered.

He nodded.

All the air went out of me. I slumped, back against the pile of wood. I took my glove off and returned my hand to the root.

Sherlock watched me.

“She’s very old,” I murmured.

His eyes met mine.

“And the fire will burn her to ashes.” I rubbed my palm over the root. It had knobs and knuckles, worn smooth here and there. I closed my eyes.

The flames licked and climbed, bright and warm, and then warmer, hot and then hotter, like the sun at mid-day.

I gripped the root again. “It doesn’t hurt?”

Sparks rose like butterflies. Everything was yellow and orange. Ash fell like snow, white and grey. Through it came the spikes of green.

“How can it not hurt?”

“These are special trees,” Sherlock murmured.

I took a deep breath. “Like the sharing trees?”

“They are sharing trees, a particular kind of sharing tree,” he replied.

I opened my eyes. “There are others?”

“All over, even in London there are three more - in Epping Forest, and atop the hill in Greenwich…”

“Where the Observatory is?”

He nodded again. “And one down in Kew.”

“In the Gardens?”

“Yes. From the air, one can see all four when they are alight.”

“And every year they burn?”

He nodded once more.

I raised my free hand and waved it about a bit. “But this tree is hundreds of years old.”

“Far older,” he said.

“How…”

_Not in the normal course of events, Watson. Have you been awake the past couple years?_

“We’ll return in a few weeks,” Sherlock said. “Or next week, if you like. And you can see for yourself. It’s best if you see for yourself.”

My hand waved about again. “It’ll be like this.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not yet. That takes the whole year.”

_Special tree, Watson. Get up._

I patted the tree root a last time.

Sherlock stood, held out his hand.

I took it and he hauled me upright. I glanced about. “I must look a right fool.”

“Not at all.” He had my arm again. “You didn’t grow up coming here. Also, no one saw you.” He hummed a few bars.

I recognised the obscuring tune.

_He wasn’t humming before._

He doesn’t have to do it aloud, like me. 

“I never heard a story about this,” I said.

“Not as sensational as the ones that do get around,” he replied.

“I suppose not.” 

When we had cleared the throng, I turned around again and stared. Although I knew the tree was at the middle, from where I stood it looked as though it could have been beyond the people. The ground was so flat, one couldn’t see that the crowd encircled it.

“A rest, while we wait for moonrise?” Sherlock asked softly.

I looked up at him. 

His cheek was like chalk. The colours of the torch flames and the fires dotted about the clearing didn’t seem to reach him. He was as pale as the moon we awaited.

“With you,” I said. 

“Of course, with me.”


	28. Burning

The fire wasn’t large, but it was hot; the wood at the bottom a fierce orange that ignited fresh kindling in an instant, and larger branches soon enough. Our little band was gathered around it, quietly drinking and eating, although Kit kept popping up to gather more deadwood from the edge of the clearing and Bert would go after him if he stayed away too long. 

Truth be told, I was drinking more than eating, but most of all, I was staring into the fire. I was sitting between it and Sherlock, who was seated behind me on a tree stump, his knees either side of my shoulders. Every few minutes, I'd hold my hands out to the flames, take them away when the leather of my gloves grew too hot, but I hadn't been able to shake the chill that seemed to have taken up residence in my bones.

“Witches,” Sherlock stated above my head.

The word hung in the air.

I could almost see it there in letters that flickered like the flames.

I glanced at the others. Wiggins was snapping twigs off a long branch. Charlie and Archie were having a quiet conversation. Bert was nearing the fire, Kit in tow with an armful of dead underbrush, Midnight trotting ahead of them both.

_Why so furtive, Watson? Ashamed?_

I was. 

_Not likely to be looked down upon by present company._

No. 

_But why would you care if it were?_

I wouldn’t.

_Your reaction indicates otherwise._

It did, but instead of flushing at the possibility that they might disapprove, I’d grown colder.

_Why?_

No reason occurred to me. It was a reflex. It was fear.

_Why?_

Not from anything I’ve experienced…I don’t think.

_Someone you know? ___

__I don’t think..._ _

__Sherlock leaned down, his open coat falling to either side of me. It didn’t bring warmth with it, but it brought his fragrance and my body always responds. Yet even that didn’t banish the chill._ _

__“Two at least, but probably several, among your forebears,” he whispered by my ear. “And one, at least, was killed by fire.”_ _

__I shuddered._ _

__Had there ever been mention of such an ancestor? I didn’t recall any…I didn’t think._ _

__“Any family stories, John?”_ _

__“None that I recall…” I shoved my icy fingers into my pockets. One hand closed around the acorn it found there._ _

__My grandmother’s hand, holding up a knotted silk cord, moth-eaten, blanched with age, a hint of red in the centre of each knot and dangling from it a miniature branch of oak with three leaves and three acorns. She made an extra knot at the end of the cord and placed it in my hand, closed my fingers over it. ‘It’s yours now, John.’_ _

__I lifted up my hand, palm cupped around the acorn._ _

__Sherlock closed his hand around mine._ _

__“What else did she say?”_ _

__“That as I was a doctor, there was no sense waiting any longer to give it me.” I sighed. “She died while I was away.”_ _

__Sherlock’s thumb rubbed across my knuckles. “Anything more?”_ _

__“Not then, but when I was a child, she would show it to me, from time to time, always saying that it had been her grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s before her, and hers before that.”_ _

__“It’s not at the Manor.”_ _

__“No, it’s in a storage locker Bill hired for his stuff before we shipped out. I only had a small box of things I didn’t want to take abroad, but didn’t want to leave with Harry either.”_ _

__“You can bring it here with you next year,” Sherlock said. He let go of my hand, swung one leg over my head and stood. “Let’s walk. There are some things I should tell you before the moon rises.”_ _

___That’s a departure from standard procedure._ _ _

__He’s explained lots of things to me._ _

___He’s left a lot out._ _ _

__Yeah, well._ _

__“It’s not just an old piece of jewellery, then?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__With a few crackles from my cold bones, I rose to my feet and followed Sherlock into the shadows beyond the fire._ _


	29. Hearts

Walking was a winding affair. The periphery of the woods was lit by a ring of campfires, the strip of flattened grasses between them and the trees filled with stacks of kindling, and heaps of sacks and satchels from which people were withdrawing food to be cooked or blankets and shawls for chilled backs. Children toddled or ran depending on their ages, while adults kept them from tumbling into the fires. Conversations rose like smoke punctuated by flashes of song. It was a convivial space, but not conducive to rapid movement.

I felt a little warmer.

We had to pause, early in our perambulations, whilst a small child was corralled by an older boy. The little one was doing his best to evade capture, squealing with glee as he dodged.

“Remember, remember the fifth of November,” I said.

Sherlock turned to me.

“Bonfire Night was like this, in the square near our house. It never bothered me. We helped make the effigy some years, Harry and I. She burned my favourite shirt one time. Swapped it out for the old one we’d put on it together without my noticing until the flames lit it up on top of the bonfire. That bothered me. Burning the Guy never did. Grisly custom that it is.”

“You knew the Guy wasn’t alive; you felt the tree was.”

“Were witches ever burned here?” I asked.

“Quite the contrary,” Sherlock answered. 

I thought he was about to say more, but in a rush of air and feathers, Siròc landed on his shoulder uttering a series of chirps.

The little boy stopped to stare, clapping his hands in delight and the older boy closed his arms around him and brought him back to the fireside.

Sherlock tilted his head down as he listened, brows furrowed, then he nodded, and Siròc took flight.

I watched her until she landed at the top of the huge oak tree.

“People with a cart have a broken wheel along the northern path. I’ll send Wiggins to help,” Sherlock said. “Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.”

I crossed my arms and scowled as he went in among the trees.

A pair of golden eyes blinked in the shadows. A dark silhouette with a very long tail passed through a patch of firelight between the trees and was gone. 

_As backup goes, that's pretty good._

I huffed and leaned against the nearest tree to wait, ears pricked and gaze wandering over the gathering.

*** 

Sherlock tapped me on the shoulder. “Wiggins and Bert are on their way.”

I looked about for them. “Won’t they need to pass this way?”

Sherlock shook his head. “They went through the woods. It’ll be quicker. Moonrise isn’t far off.”

“Is Chapalu going with them?”

“Ah, you spotted Palug, her older son. Not easy to do,” Sherlock said. “This area is his remit. Chapalu will have gone back to guard the grounds of the Manor house by now.”

“He seemed to be guarding you,” I said.

The hint of a smile flickered across his lips. “It’s close to moonrise."

_Not really on point._

Nothing new.

_And repetitive._

More unusual.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked as we resumed our walk.

“Watched the people.” 

There was an second, inner ring of campfires, which there hadn’t been when we’d arrived. The crowd around the towering oak was smaller. It seemed that most people had added their wood to the pyre and settled around their own fires to wait.

“Any observations?”

“Do people always come here in groups?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Some come alone or in pairs, but they’ll usually be invited to join another campfire. There’s only so much room in the clearing.”

_What a pragmatic and straightforward answer._

Happens sometimes.

I gazed out over the people clustered in groups, their faces ruddy in the light of their fires. I squinted into the wavering glow. Here and there, I saw cheeks as pallid as Sherlock’s. I frowned, my eyes darting between those I could see. None were talking or singing or eating. Indeed, they were all very still.

_Unlike Sherlock._

Unless he’s thinking deeply.

_Maybe they are thinking deeply._

Maybe. I stared some more. 

A hand landed on my shoulder.

I stilled and glanced up at Sherlock.

“Observe something else?”

“Are some of your relatives here?”

“You’d recognise my parents or Mycroft.”

“Cousins?”

“Tell me what you see.”

I looked back to the nearest wan creature. It was a child of six or seven sleeping in his mother’s lap, his head on her shoulder. She was stroking his hair and singing to him. 

“The child in his mother’s lap,” I replied. “He isn’t dressed warmly enough for being outside.”

“Anything else?”

“The fellow dozing against the log over there, despite the fellows on either side of him singing what sounds like a drinking song.” I nodded towards the group.

Sherlock raised both eyebrows at me and inclined his head.

“The woman in the embroidered cloak, who’s drifted off in her husband’s…or lover’s arms. The ones with the pale grey horse tied to a tree behind them and a fire to themselves.”

Sherlock glanced their way.

“See how the firelight throws a warm glow on the man’s face, but not the woman's? She’s as white as a…”

Sherlock turned back to me, one eyebrow up this time.

“…ghost?” I finished.

He slipped his arm through mine and started us walking again. “When people die close to the solstice, their families or friends are able to bring their bodies entire to the fire.”

_Like Old Doctor Hooper._

My gaze swept over the crowd again.

“The friends or families of those not so timely in their demise, will have brought some part of their dead with them. A hand or a foot or a head, packed in salt to preserve it. Some choose the heart. If someone dies in distant lands, or at sea, their loved ones might bring a lock of hair or a tooth to the fire. Everyone leaves a lock of hair behind when they go travelling for this purpose. Parents keep their children’s teeth for the same reason.”

I coughed.

Sherlock looked at me.

“My mother kept all of Harry’s and my milk teeth. She had a little box of them,” I said. “I always thought it a bit macabre.”

“Hmm.”

“What if those things are lost?”

“Something belonging to the person can be used. An article of clothing or jewellery, spectacles, a favourite book.”

I stared up at the tree. Siròc still held vigil. “What if one dies without family or friends?”

“Every area designates someone to fulfil the task, usually an apothecary, if no one closer comes forward. You'll see that tonight, people with several small items to add to the fire.”

"But why bother, if there's no one left behind to be comforted by the ritual?" I asked.

"This, I think you must witness yourself," he said.

_Not much you can say to that._

No.

*** 

We'd reached the side of the clearing directly opposite the open vista to the south, when the neighing of a horse announced the arrival of late-comers. 

"The folks with the broken cart?" I asked and then I saw the gleam of a pair of golden eyes beneath the trees and felt sure.

A moment later, two people with torches emerged from the path and the horse was close behind. The cart it pulled was small and narrow and garlanded with ivy. Behind it, Bert and Wiggins brought up the rear.

_No cart could have made it up the path we took._

They almost didn't make it down this one.

I looked into the cart as it passed. A snowy-haired woman lay in her finery upon cushions within, her features tranquil. I couldn't help wondering whether she had died in her sleep.

We stood watching as horse and cart trundled across the clearing, skirting those milling about the oak tree and halting where the hill fell away to the south.

“If you had arrived too late in Afghanistan, would you have brought me here?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Might have been hard to get away with the body,” I remarked. “Lots of red tape in the military.”

He moved closer, arm brushing against my shoulder.

“Then I would have brought your heart.”


	30. Heated

By the time we had completed a full circuit and reached our campfire once again, the aroma of Bert and Charlie roasting some type of meat over the flames was most welcome. Wiggins was sharpening small sticks and Archie was skewering chunks from a mound of raw meat and herbs laid out on brown paper spread upon the grass. Kit was selecting suitable sticks from a pile of kindling that was even bigger than it had been when we left. Midnight had his own chunk of meat that he was devouring raw to an accompaniment of satisfied sounds.

I smiled. It felt like coming home.

_Despite Wiggins?_

Yeah, even with Wiggins.

I watched him whittling a fresh stick to a wicked point with three flashes of his knife.

He looked up then and smiled back at me.

_That was unsettling._

Wiggins is always unsettling, one way or another.

He handed me his latest bit of woodworking.

“Ta,” I said as I took it.

_You could put an eye out with that._

That can be said of many things.

Sherlock had already resumed his seat upon the tree stump and was considering the substantial piece of raw meat on the skewer in his hand. He took a bite and his teeth gleamed in the firelight.

I inhaled.

_Steady, Watson. You’re in public._

Right.

I shut my eyes to not see him bite again.

Two sharp points traced faint lines down my chest, the pressure so light they tickled as they veered left across my abdomen and continued along my hip to my thigh. In their wake, faint pink trails grew red as pinpricks of blood rose to the skin. I drew two fingers through them, held them out to Sherlock. He sniffed and looked up, eyes glittering, tongue rosy as he licked and nipped at my fingers. The sheets rustled as my legs opened wider. He looked down again. I watched him lower his head, felt his cool breath on my heated skin, the press of his lips, the stroke of his tongue, and then his teeth found their favourite spot, and he bit. My head fell back onto the pillows. One hand was firm at my hip, the other gentle between my thighs. My eyes drifted closed as he suckled. 

“John,” Sherlock called and I opened my eyes, looked around, remembered where I was.

He gestured with a skewer. “Come eat.”

So, I returned to my seat amongst the tree stump’s roots, between Sherlock’s long legs, and ate my fill of roasted meat. And, from time to time, Sherlock would slip a finger between my shirt collar and my throat, and stroke my pulse point.


	31. Spark

I may have dozed, surfeited with wine and meat. I awoke, head against Sherlock’s thigh, to the sound of his voice calling my name.

“John. John, look in the east.”

I may have been dreaming. I was in a lovely place to dream.

His hand was on my shoulder.

“John, look up! Through the trees.”

There was an urgency in his voice and I always respond to that. So, I lifted my sleepy head. 

All around us a great hissing sound rose.

My eyes flew open and I reached for the dagger that I didn’t have. Damn!

Water poured onto our fire. It seethed and smoked until handfuls of dirt quieted it.

I coughed and leaned forwards, glanced from side to side. All the fires, were being extinguished, with water and dirt, tamped down by boots.

Sherlock tapped my shoulder again. “Look east, John.” His hand appeared by my cheek pointing across the clearing and there it was, a pearly glow suffusing the trees in the east, outlining their branches and casting long shadows on the low clouds of smoke.

I’ve seen the moon rise many a time, atop mountains, beside the sea, through bedsit windows, but it had never seemed so large or so bright.

Something rattled.

Wiggins shook a box, slid it opened, then snapped it shut. He looked towards me, but above my head. 

I felt Sherlock nod.

Wiggins tapped Bert on the shoulder and stood.

“Can I come, too? Please,” Kit pleaded.

I felt Sherlock nod again.

Bert crouched. Clutching a few twigs in one hand, Kit climbed onto his brother’s shoulders and Midnight leapt onto Kit’s back. Bert stood and all four set off.

“Why didn’t they just light a torch at the fire before they doused it?” I asked.

“New season, new fire,” Sherlock said. 

“Right,” I murmured and watched our delegation join the others wending their way towards the huge oak. 

Sometime while I had nodded off, everyone standing around the pyre had settled down, to eat or rest I supposed, so that now the only people standing were those approaching the oak through the shadows streaked with moonlight.

I looked skyward. At the top of the towering oak, Siròc was still perched.

_She doesn’t get incinerated every winter, does she?_

To rise again like a phoenix?

_Why don’t you ask?_

We’ve been over this. And, we’ll see in a little while anyway.

_Developing patience in your old age, Watson?_

Hey! Not old yet.

_Who had to take a nap?_

It was a long day and now we’re nearly into the next one.

_Excuses, excuses._

Sherlock tapped my shoulder and pointed.

The edge of the moon had crested the tree tops. The air brightened. The shadows grew longer.

An orange spark twinkled above Kit’s head. He was waving a hand about. Fanning it, perhaps. I smiled. Wiggins had let him do the honours.

It grew into a tongue of flame, bright and wild in the grey and silver landscape. It rose higher. Licked along the upper edge of the pyre and something on top took light.

_That’s your willow._

Is it?

I peered through the dissipating smoke, saw the outline of the willow’s small branches waving in the air, catching fire one by one.

A faint crackling reached my ears.

And then a voice rose, a high tremolo. Such a sweet voice.

_It’s Kit._

I looked lower. I’d never heard him sing and yet the sound seemed to come from where he sat on Bert’s shoulders.

The flame grew. 

I could see Midnight’s silhouette on Kit’s shoulder.

A strong voice joined Kit and then a deeper voice, but I couldn’t tell which was Bert and which Wiggins, although the singing clearly came from them.

Their flame grew and they stepped backwards.

All around the circle, other sparks flared into life and other voices took up the song. As the flames grew stronger, all those encircling the pyre stepped back a pace or two and then several more.

My gaze followed the flames upwards.

The air shimmered. Siròc took flight, gliding around the oak on the waves of heat. All across the clearing people began to hum.

To my side, Charlie and Archie hummed as they arranged more wood in the ashes of our quenched fire.

Behind me, Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble. I leaned back, my head resting against his abdomen and felt as well as heard him.

_Don’t know this tune either, Watson?_

No.

But I didn’t think it mattered.

My blood seemed to be pulsing with it.


	32. Lights

An arc of moon was showing above the trees as our fire lighters approached across the grass, Kit with his hands cupped around something upon which he was blowing. When Bert knelt down and Kit clambered off, I saw what.

He held the tips of his glowing twigs to the kindling and small branches that Archie and Charlie had arranged over the extinguished ashes and soon our new fire was crackling and bright.

_Rather charming custom._

Yes. It is.

I smiled at Kit. “You did well, Corporal.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, grinning from ear to ear. “I never thought I’d have the chance to do that tonight!”

“And we could hear you clear as a bell all the way back here,” Archie added.

“Mrs Hudson’s star pupil,” Bert said and ruffled Kit’s hair.

_You never noticed any singing lessons, Watson._

True. I thought he was down in the kitchen so much because he’s a growing lad.

_He’s more the age to be an apprentice than you._

Why the obsession with age lately?

_Well, you aren’t getting any younger._

Standing, cheeks covered in lather, before the little mirror in the loo. Glimmers of gold rather than silver amidst the brown reflected in the mirror.

Am I not?

A horse whinnied. 

I looked over Sherlock’s knee.

The lady with the embroidered cloak and her gentleman were standing. He was untying the pale grey horse from the tree, the animal pawing the ground and tossing its head. The woman was stroking the beast’s neck, leaning her face against its great head and it began to settle.

_He, Watson. It’s a stallion._

Aren’t you observant?

Beyond them, I saw the trio of blokes getting to their feet. The pale fellow in the middle was hooking his arms about his companions’ shoulders.

My gaze shifted. 

The sleeping child had awakened and stood beside his mother, dancing a little from foot to foot, and tugging on her hand. The woman rose, then bent down and hefted the child to her hip. He was on the cusp of being too big for her to carry, but he grinned as he clasped his arms around her neck and his feet around her waist.

Another horse neighed and I turned to find it.

The carthorse by the southern slope whickered as the side of its cart was lowered. The two people who had accompanied the cart helped its elderly occupant down to the ground.

_All the ghosts you spotted._

I twisted around to look at Sherlock. “What’s happening?” I whispered.

“Watch,” he said, tilting his head towards the couple with the horse.

The man was kneeling. The woman gathered her cloak over one arm and lifted a booted leg. The man crouched lower and she stepped on his shoulder and swung her other leg over the horse’s back. 

The horse snorted, its breath a white cloud in the night air.

The woman leaned down along the horse’s neck, appeared to be whispering in its ear.

The man stood.

She held out her hand to him. He took it in both his hands and pressed his lips to it then his cheek before slowly letting go. She drew her hand away, stroking his face on the way to grasping the horse’s reins.

The man swatted the horse’s hindquarters. The woman smiled down at him, as she dug in her heels. The horse reared up then took off at a gallop.

My fingers gripped Sherlock’s leg. People would be trampled.

“Watch,” Sherlock whispered above my head.

My stomach tightened. I held my breath. 

No one screamed. No one moaned.

The horse’s hooves found the ground between the people then he leapt, his harness gleaming, his hooves glinting in the firelight. 

The woman’s cloak steamed behind her, its gold embroidery glittering as they sailed over the last few metres and landed atop the fire.

I inhaled sharply, keeping my eyes open as wide as they could go.

No one cried out.

_Shouldn’t their weight collapse the whole thing?_

How much does a ghost weigh?

“Watch,” Sherlock whispered.

Someone else was moving. The little boy and his mother had reached the edge of the unoccupied space around the fire too hot for anyone to sit there. She let the boy down still holding one of his hands, bent down and kissed him on the forehead. He rose on tiptoe and kissed her cheek and then he turned towards the fire and laughed.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

The child let go of his mother’s hand and clapped his together, then with a quick glance up at her, he ran straight at the flames. He clambered up the burning lattice of branches and when he reached the top he turned around and sat on the edge and waved to his mother.

She raised her hand high and waved back.

The fire roared.

“Sherlock…”

_Are you weeping again, Watson?_

Sherlock kneaded my shoulders. “Watch.”

The three men had arrived at the edge of the open space, their faces as brightly lit by the flames as by the sun at midday. The man in the middle unwound his arms from his companions’ shoulders and turned to face them. He embraced one of the men, drew back and held his face in both his hands before kissing him thoroughly, then did the same to the other man. With that, he took his leave, pivoting in place then striding to the pyre. He scaled it slowly, appearing to think about each handhold before climbing higher. Around him the burning wood crackled.

The little boy looked down at the man, cheering him on with beckoning gestures.

When the man rolled himself over the top, the boy patted his back. After lying face down in the flames, the man rolled further from the edge, rose onto one knee and stood. He waved his arms over his head.

His friends waved back and whistled.

_I bet he’s afraid of heights._

Not fire?

_No, heights. Maybe that’s how he died._

With a final wave, the man turned towards the tree, walking with measured steps to the trunk and then began to climb it.

The little boy was looking over his shoulder at the man, then turned back to his mother and waved again.

She blew him a kiss.

The child began walking along the top edge with his arms out to either side. He stopped when he was above the place where the snowy-haired woman was cautiously making her way up the lattice. The boy leaned over the edge, hands on his knees, watching. The woman was waiting for a minute or more between each upward reach of a hand or lift of a foot.

_Look at her children._

How do you know they’re her children?

_They look about the right age._

One was holding the other back, arms around their waist. The one thus restrained, held their arms out towards the old woman.

_He wants to help her up._

Or pull her back.

The little boy lay down on the top of the fire, stretched his hand out towards the woman. She clasped it when she was close enough and mounted the last part a little less slowly.

On the ground, her son clung to his companion, or sibling, his head on their shoulder. And then, he looked up. The elderly woman was standing on top, one hand on the little boy’s shoulder.

After a moment, she stood up straighter, rolled her shoulders and clasped her hands. Then, she pressed her hands to her mouth and held them out towards her children before turning away and walking towards the tree.

I glanced up. Siròc still circled above the top of the tree, the light feathers of her underside golden in the firelight, the tops of her wings silvery in the moonlight when she dipped a wing to turn.

Full half of the moon hung above the treetops, casting shadows beyond the firelight, outlining the trunks of the eastern trees in pale grey light. 

Siròc swooped across the face of the moon, down towards the clearing, talons outstretched.

“What…” I sat up straighter. 

A person stood tall, arms high above their head, not far from where the mother remained watching her little boy atop the fire. 

_Is there someone other than Sherlock Siròc perches on?_

Not that I’ve seen.

Her claws closed about something in the person’s hands and she banked, low over the people’s heads before she gained height and glided across the moon with her catch. 

_Were they feeding her? Thanking her for keeping watch?_

Maybe.

She circled above the oak once then dropped what she held into the fire.

I began to turn towards Sherlock.

“Keep your eyes on the fire,” he whispered.

So, I did.

_Of course, you did._

Quiet.

There was a shadow in the fire. The flames licked about it, outlined it. It grew more distinct. A tall figure in a dark robe twirled in the flames. The robe flared as they turned. The figure held out their arms and ran towards the tree.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Siròc dived again. Another person was standing, arms raised, near where the old woman had parted from her companions. Again, Siròc snatched something from their hands, swept high into the air and dropped what she’d taken into the fire. A dog took shape in the flames. It ran in circles, raced to the little boy, then bounded away again. The boy stooped, picked up a flaming stick and threw it towards the tree. The dog leapt after it…and was gone.

I squinted at the fire. 

The woman and the horse were gone. The old woman was gone. I could only spot the fellow who had started climbing the tree. He was sat in the fork of one of its lower branches.

Siròc dropped from the sky again. And again, a shape took form in the flames when she let fall what she had taken up.

One by one, dozens of people held their hands up to the sky and Siròc took what they offered and the shades of their dead took shape in the flames. 

And, the moon rose higher.

I rubbed my eyes. 

Sherlock held his flask out in front of me.

I took a quick sip, keeping an eye on Siròc, but she stayed high above the oak. I took a longer drink and handed it back.

“Those were body parts,” I murmured.

“Mainly,” he replied. “One was a boot.”

“People who died earlier this year?”

“Yes.”

“And the boot worked?”

“You saw the figure in the fire,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes,” I agreed. I still had a scarf my mother had knitted for me when I was in sixth form. I’d lost the one she’d made me before that. If one doesn’t lose them, scarves pretty much last forever. I could bring it here. Let Siròc drop it into the flames.

“They don’t always work,” Sherlock added.

“Oh,” I said softly.

“If people haven’t returned from a journey, or a battle, or a sea voyage, a possession dropped into the fire that brings no shape, means they haven’t died,” Sherlock explained.

“Not easy to sneak off and pretend you’re dead with this crowd then?”

_Do you know a lot of people who do that, Watson?_

Well, people have done such things. 

_In films._

No, actual people. To defraud insurance companies or escape the police. 

I felt queasy for a moment, put my head down on Sherlock’s knee.

_What’s the matter with you?_

I don’t know.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

_You’re not going to vomit, are you?_

I don’t think so.

_Was a bit of the meat off?_

Dread.

_Dread?_

I feel this deep sense of dread. Worse than when I was shot.

I took another breath and blew it out softly.

“No,” Sherlock replied. He leaned closer. “Shall I give you a lock of my hair to keep, John?”

“Yes,” I said. My stomach unclenched. I opened my eyes and lifted my head.

_Why would that comfort you?_

I don’t know, but it does.

The full moon hung above the trees, huge and brilliant. Beneath it, the fire roared, licking up the trunk of the oak. Its bark had turned to burning embers.

Siròc circled far above the flames, a dark silhouette crossing the moon.

No one stood around the fire. Everyone had found a place to sit and await the dawn. There was still a hum in the air, but much softer than before.

Sherlock held his flask out again. 

I shook my head, took out mine instead and drank deep.

_All better now?_

Nearly.

I capped the flask and tucked it away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the light waver. I glanced to the side.

Above the northern woods, the sky rippled. Between the trees, a hint of rose outlined the bare branches

_It’s too soon for dawn._

Wrong direction anyway.

I looked towards the moon, snowy above the fire. A breeze gusted through the clearing. The flames leapt higher.

I gazed north again. The air was violet, the stars white sparks burning through it. The rosy glow had blossomed. I twisted to face it fully. Wisps of green smoke curled above the trees.

_Some sort of supernatural forest fire?_

“Sherlock!” I gripped his thigh. “The woods!”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied and I heard the smile in his voice. “Mother has sent the Lights. I thought she might. A gift for your first Fire.”

“The woods aren’t burning?”

“No.”

I sighed and leaned back, the crown of my head against Sherlock’s belly and followed the Lights’ dance. “I should have realised. I’ve always wanted to see these.”

“She probably knew.”

No doubt hours passed, but I didn’t stir except for my eyes. I suppose I breathed.

The sky grew pale. The green smoke wafted higher and higher chasing after the last stars until it finally faded away.

I sighed and blinked.

A shadow passed over me. 

I twisted about as Siròc landed on Sherlock’s shoulder and chirped by his ear.

_Deserting his post?_

I glanced towards the oak. 

It was no more. Where it had been, ashes smouldered. Above it, the moon rode high, a small white disc, half obscured by the clouds scudding past it to the south.

I gazed around us. All across the clearing, fires were being extinguished, blankets folded, belongings stowed.

The carthorse plodded into view, harness jingling. The man who had wept, looked straight ahead as he led his horse towards the mouth of the northern path. His companion rode in the wagon garlanded with ivy. She was gazing back at where the fire had been.

The two fellows whose mate had climbed the oak, raised their flagons to the heap of ash where the fire had been, then upended them.

I couldn’t see the man whose lady had ridden into the flames, but the woman whose little boy had waved to her from atop the fire, still sat by the remains of her smoking campfire, stirring its ashes with a stick. Around her, her family or friends, packed their things into satchels and bags.

People criss-crossed the clearing, disappearing down the paths to the north and the west, past us towards the path south and away from us towards the nearly obscured sunrise in the east.

The grey light dimmed further. I looked up. Dark clouds were gathering above us, the moon nearly hidden now, like the sun.

I felt a cold drop on my nose. Scowling, I held out my hand. A few flakes landed on my palm and melted. 

Those left in the clearing made similar gestures before turning up their collars or pulling their caps down over their ears.

When I looked, snowflakes were gathering on the shawl of the woman by her doused fire. She got up, dusted off her skirt, shouldered the satchel her friends had packed for her and turned towards the western path where they were waiting.

Her little boy tugged on her skirts.

She looked down, fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. If she cried out, it must have been softly, because I heard nothing.

“Am I seeing what I think I am, Sherlock?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the mother and son as I stood up.

Sherlock rose and stood behind me. “It happens sometimes.”

“How is this possible? Was he not actually dead? ” 

_If he wasn’t, dancing around in the fire ought to have done it._

“He wanted to come back to her,” Sherlock said.

“It’s as simple as that?”

“No, not simple at all, but it happens sometimes.”

_He’s repeating himself._

“If you had brought some piece of me to the fire, could I have come back?” I asked.

“If you wanted to,” he replied.

“I hadn’t wanted to die from that bullet wound,” I said. “I prayed not to die.”

“Then you may have come out of the fire.”

The little boy and his mother were walking quickly towards their companions. “Her friends don’t seem that surprised.”

“They must know how skilful she is,” Sherlock said.

_Sherlock’s very skilful._

I turned and looked up at him. “Would I have recognised you?”

_How likely is that? It took you nearly two years of living with him to realise you’d met him before you came for that interview._

“You might have. Fire is very clarifying.”

I stared at him, pale and beautiful in the grey dawn. “I’m glad you got to Afghanistan in time. Both times.”

His eyes locked with mine. “Me, too, John.”


	33. Evergreen

I saw myself below, curled on my side, mossy log for a pillow. Snow had dusted me from hat to boot, but I slumbered on atop a cushion of dropped needles and fallen leaves. They had become warm beneath me. Only my nose looked cold, the one part not covered by wool or leather. It drew in a breath of juniper and yew and pine. A last snowflake drifted down through the branches, green and bare alike, and landed on my nose. It twitched and I turned my head, tucking my nose into my scarf.

“He stirs with the fading of the light.”

My eyes darted from side to side beneath my lids.

“The wine will soon be poured, the candles lit.”

I sniffed. I smelt the spices along with the yew and juniper and pine. I rubbed my head against the log. Its bark was very smooth.

I opened my eyes, tilted my head up.

Sherlock looked down at me, face lit by the blue glow of his phone. “I thought you might sleep through the night as well.”

I glanced towards the balcony doors. 

The sky was a deep grey, without stars or moon.

I blinked a few times, lifted my head a little.

“It’s nice to find you here,” I croaked and cleared my throat.

“I tried getting up twice, but you just held on tighter.”

I raised my eyebrows at this and started to stretch, but didn’t get beyond a slight rolling of my shoulders. My hands were clasped around Sherlock’s hips. I unlaced my fingers and wiggled them. They were stiff. “I slept like that?”

“You did.”

I drew one arm out from behind him and half sat up. “All that cold fresh air must have done it,” I murmured then remembered breakfast. “And all the food.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner were very pleased with your appetite.” Sherlock set his phone aside and slid down next to me. “As was I.”

It had been snowing properly by the time we’d sought rest. The air in the courtyard had been thick with snowflakes like feathers, the sky white, the light diffuse.

I smoothed my hand across his chest. “You look beautiful in half-light.”

I had barely stopped to look at him when he lay down on the bed. My garments were, no doubt, strewn about the room. It had been less love-making and more devouring.

“And feel beautiful.” I had slid on top of him and kissed at the base of his throat, until the skin had warmed with my attentions. “And taste beautiful.” 

He stretched out beside me, long and lovely.

“Is there time?” I whispered at his ear before I kissed down his lovely, long body and back up again.

“They’ll wait until they hear our footsteps on the stairs.”


	34. Mirror

I ran a comb through my wet hair, eye on my vague reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. 

Behind me, Sherlock stepped out of the bath. His reflection glided across the glass, half-hidden by clouds of mist. 

I thought to wipe them away, but did not move. 

He saw me watching. His reflection smiled, a half-smile, half-hidden.

Beads of water ran down the glass. 

His reflection grew. It loomed over me.

I felt the heat of his shower-warmed skin at my back. 

His hands appeared either side of my head, his fingers in my hair, undoing the work of my comb. 

I inhaled; it pushed us closer. Soft skin brushed the curve of my back. My next breath was deeper.

His fingers tangled in my hair, across my brow, above my ears. “There,” he murmured and dropped his hands to my shoulders.

I didn’t move, my eyes fixed on his in the mirror.

“We shouldn’t make them wait too much longer,” he said, stepping back.

I frowned.

He traced a line down my back with his knuckles. 

I sighed.

His hand opened, curved around one buttock. 

My eyes half-closed.

His other hand slid over moist skin, around my hip.

I leaned back against him.

“Or…” He rested his chin atop my shoulder, eyes on mine as his hand slipped lower. “We could make them wait just a little longer.”

I licked my lips.

He slipped from view. His tongue was cool.

I saw my eyes open wide in the glass.

I spread my hands on the cool green marble and leaned forward. My breath fogged the mirror.

We wouldn’t keep them waiting long.


	35. Riddles

I switched off the bedside lamp as Sherlock opened the door. Inky darkness greeted us. Sherlock strode into it.

I reached back to turn the lamp on again. My fingers dipped into hot wax instead. I hissed and raised them to my mouth, cooled them against my tongue. The glow of the extinguished wick faded to a pinpoint and disappeared. I rubbed my fingers together. The cold wax crumbled and fell.

_Electricity was a useful invention._

Not arguing with you there.

“Come, John,” Sherlock called.

I looked to the doorway. The black was absolute. I hurried into it. “Sherlock!” I whispered.

Long, cool fingers closed over mine. “Mind the holly.”

I snatched my outstretched hand back to my chest. “Right.”

Our footsteps resounded on bare wood as we crossed the hall. 

_What happened to the carpet?_

Out for cleaning?

_Humorous, Watson._

Three steps down the staircase, Sherlock halted. “We’ll give them a moment.”

“For what?” I asked quietly, peering around us for a glimmer of light. I found it above, sparkling through the skylight.

With a sharp click, the library door opened. A faint, flickering light, perfumed with spices, fell onto the lower landing.

Rapid steps scurried away from us.

I scowled, listening for more. The silence was unbroken.

Sherlock’s arm slipped through mine. We resumed our descent. 

I could see the holly on the bannister now, more berry-laden than ever. 

I sniffed. The scent of pine, fresh and burnt, mingled with the fragrance of spices. The doorway to the library was outlined in boughs, heavy with cones. The needles brushed my cheek as we passed through.

The room stretched away from us, empty and dim, curtains drawn, laboratory doors shut tight. The glow of the banked ashes in the hearth lit the hearthstone, the evergreen boughs on the mantle above and little else. The flames of two candles were all that illuminated the rest. One, upon the coffee table, was ringed with sprays of juniper, dark with berries. 

I stooped to pick one, set it on my tongue.

_Some of those are poisonous, you know._

What are the odds that this one isn't?

I pushed it between my teeth with my tongue and bit into it. A sharp, peppery flavour flooded my mouth. My lips puckered and my eyes squinted. 

The flame at the far end of the room became a star. 

"What comes to mind?" Sherlock asked.

"Roasted boar," I replied promptly, surprised at the vivid image of the huge animal on a spit in a huger fireplace that had risen before my mind's eye. 

"Interesting." 

I swallowed twice to dilute the taste, then inclined my head. “Do I hear music?”

“Shall we go see?” Sherlock asked before gliding across the room.

I followed fast, but he was gone faster.

I did not pause at the entrance to the passage to the music room, but plunged into the blackness, running my left hand along the panelled wall until I found Sherlock waiting at the other end.

The music had stopped, but even through the wood, the hum of conversation was loud, punctuated by the occasional trill of laughter. Harp and flute took up a new song.

“The Riddle Song,” I murmured, thinking to hum along. Old memories stirred. My mother had sung Harry and I to sleep with it as children.

Sherlock tapped a finger against my lips.

Before us, the door opened, the sound swelled and we stepped through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One version of _The Riddle Song_ may be heard on Wikipedia [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Riddle_Song).


	36. Bells

From the minstrel gallery, the strains of _Greensleeves_ drifted over the room. I leaned back against the window casement and watched for Mrs Hudson’s hands to play over the upper reaches of the strings of the grand harp. 

Improving though I was, it would be a long time before I could call forth music like that. 

Judging by the expression on his face, Kit was having similar thoughts as he stood to one side of her, closer to the balustrade.

I thought he shouldn't, he had a gift. It was clear. I was looking forward to hearing him sing.

In the corner, deep in the shadows, Wiggins stood, striking a tambour in perfect time.

“May I?” a quiet voice asked.

I looked away from the musicians towards the sound.

Molly Hooper inclined her head towards the seat in front of the window of the lute player.

_Sherlock’s window, you mean?_

Yes, well.

_Your lover’s window._

OK, all right.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, moving over in my own window seat so I could more easily turn to speak with her.

_In front of your own window._

The faun’s window.

_Your window, Watson._

Yes. Well.

It wasn’t a blatant place for me to sit because _my_ window was open wide to let Summer’s breezes warm the room and the reverse of stained glass is so obscure and dull.

Molly arranged her flowery frock as she sat, her hair falling over her shoulder.

My brow furrowed.

I stared from her across the room to the window of the dancing woman with the long, brown hair and tambourine. That window, too, was open, freshening the air with Spring’s mild air, but I didn’t need to see the stained glass now to recall its details.

When I looked back at her, she was smiling.

“You didn’t recognise me in the morgue?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Well, it was early days and you weren’t at your best after your Roman holiday.” She giggled a bit at her little joke.

I raised my eyebrows. “You look different from the floor.”

She reached out, patted my arm. “Stepping through’s not easy at the beginning.”

“To put it mildly. “But, I didn't twig at the ball either."

"You definitely had other things on your mind that night."

I nodded before upending my goblet. I reached out for hers. "Top up?” I asked.

She emptied hers in turn and handed it to me. “I’ll save your seat.”

_She likes her little jokes._

So it would appear.

“Ta.”

_He made her a window, too._

It was before I knew him.

_Not really._

Before I knew I knew him. Satisfied?

I returned bearing a refilled goblet in each hand with a dish of dainties balanced on top of each. Mrs Turner had made the selections for me, piled the plates high. I didn’t even bother to protest.

_It would have hurt her feelings._

It would have.

Molly relieved me of the food and wine I held out to her.

“Generous servings!” she exclaimed with a smile, setting the dish next to her on the cushion.

“Mrs Turner wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”

"Absolutely not."

Molly popped the tiny tart that was balanced on the top of her dish into her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed. “Boar,” she said. “Chapalu’s been hunting.”

It startled me, hearing her speak of these things, as though they were somehow only mine.

_Despite all the other folks that live at the Manor?_

Well, and theirs, but they live here.

_So did she. Born and raised, remember?_

Mainly, I remember that she fancied Sherlock.

I placed the matching tart from my plate into my mouth, to excuse my dumbstruck condition. Then I understood why she had closed her eyes.

“Incredible,” I mumbled when I had nearly finished chewing. “Are there juniper berries in it?”

She nodded. “These tarts are traditionally on the menu for this evening,” she said, waving another tart about as she spoke. 

“This evening?”

“The night after the Fire.” She put her tart in her mouth. Her eyes closed again. “I do miss Mrs Turner’s cooking,” she said after a bit. “And Mrs Hudson’s sweets.”

I found another little tart as well and examined it. The pastry had the shape of an acorn on top. I’d eaten the other too quickly to notice any detail. Visual inspection complete, I devoured it.

Molly opened her eyes. “That was one of the reasons Sherlock made the window for me,” she offered.

_She noticed your scowling at her window._

I wasn’t scowling at it.

_You were._

“Oh.” 

“And to visit my parents, of course, when I was off at university. It’s a kind of short cut.”

“To your hall of residence?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.

“Then, it was. Now a walk through the blooming hills of Spring brings me to my flat.”

“It shifts with you?”

She nodded again and picked up another tart. “Yes. My parents really appreciated it. I’d usually find my mother in here. She was the Manor harpist all my life, until she moved to Australia…now, neither of them is here.”

_Her father died not so long ago, Watson. Say something civil._

“I’m sorry about your loss,” I said.

_Eloquent, Watson. Original._

I didn’t know him. What am I to say?

She took a sip of wine. “Father would have liked you.”

I met her eyes. “Why not carry on the family tradition?”

_What is wrong with you, Watson!? Mrs Hudson told you why._

She glanced away. “I got used to the wider world.”

“Lucky for me,” I said.

“Lucky for the Manor, too, John.”

I took a long drink of the mulled wine.

She looked back and smiled at me. “Take care with that. It has quite a kick.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“There are spirits in there as well as wine and fruit,” she said.

_Are we talking alcoholic spirits or the other kind?_

“Father used to say that it would cure what ailed you, unless you overdid it, and it killed you.”

I sputtered. "Well, that would also cure whatever ailed you."

She laughed at that. “It would. Have you ever had a liqueur called Singeverga?”

I shook my head.

“It’s made at a monastery in Italy from an ancient recipe. Its claim to fame is that it has one hundred and fifty herbs and spices in it.” She raised her cup to me. “This has far more and the recipe is much, much older.”

_Not holiday punch._

I could hear the pride in her voice. I waved my goblet beneath my nose and inhaled. My eyes shut. The woods were dark, ivy hung from the trees. Between their bare branches, the moon sailed, round and silver.

I opened my eyes. Molly was watching me. “Visions?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she replied.

“Poisons?”

“Some.”

I nodded.

_Not a surprise._

No.

Kit’s bell-like soprano fell silent, the tambour, too. The harp played on for several bars, then faded away.

I glanced over my shoulder and up.

Kit was holding onto the balustrade, his face flushed. I grinned and raised my cup to him and he smiled.

The harp sounded anew.

“He has such a beautiful voice,” Molly said. “Mrs Hudson is teaching him well.”

“Clear as a bell,” I agreed.

“If my mother had stayed, she would have tutored him.” Molly shook her head. “He wasn’t strong enough when he and his brother first arrived. Neither of them were.”

“Mrs Hudson touched on that once,” he said.

Kit began to sing, but it wasn’t in English.

I knew the tune though. “That’s the _The Holly and the Ivy_ , isn’t it?” Although the tune wasn’t quite the same.

“With somewhat different words, yes.”

I listened. It felt as though if I attended carefully enough their meaning would unfold for me.

“Evening, John.”

It was gone.

I looked up. 

Greg stood grinning down at me. “I heard you went up the hill yesterday.”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

He leaned down, rested his hand on my shoulder. “And made it back to tell the tale.” He patted my shoulder and straightened up. “I knew you would.”

_What? Do some people not come back? Is he taking the piss?_

I don't know. He doesn’t seem to be.

“Oh, I knew you would, too,” Molly said. 

Greg craned his neck a bit and lifted an eyebrow. “I see you’re well-provisioned there, Doctor Hooper. Willing to share?”

Molly laughed, selected a little tart from her plate and held it up to him.

He leaned down and closed his lips around her fingers.

_Their situation has progressed since the last time we saw them together._

Definitely.

“Mmm. Auroch,” Greg said. “I haven’t had that in ages.”

“Since last year,” Molly quipped and picked another titbit from her plate. “We had boar earlier.”

“Chapalu’s been busy,” Greg replied before swooping down and capturing the tart. “Every year, I forget how good these are, especially with this.” He took a long drink of wine and looked over at me. “Pity you and Sherlock missed it last year.”

“I was wondering about that,” I said, rubbing my chin.

“You two stayed down in Woolwich to deal with a maritime issue,” Molly supplied. “Fortunately, Greg was able to make it back in time.” She smiled up at him.

“Well, I can’t sing as skilfully as Sherlock,” Greg said.

I rubbed my shoulder and smiled. I had rowed for miles as Sherlock sat, back to me, singing, while the creature followed his song east near enough to the mouth of the Thames for it to manage to find its own way out to sea. Thankfully, we could use the motor on the way back without scaring any skittish sea serpents.

_A little empathy, Watson. It had just had a very distressing encounter with the Thames Barrier._

Fine.

“My arms ached for days,” I said.

“Didn’t envy you that task, mate,” Greg said.

“Mr Holmes!” Mrs Turner exclaimed. “I’ve saved your favourites for you.”

All three of us turned towards her voice.

Mycroft stood before the closing panel to the passageway, sleek in black. He wore a suit, but the coat was long and the snowy collar high.

“Look at the cut of that,” Greg said. “He’s been to Paris.”

_Not this century._

No. One or two back.

_You’re going to have to do a little studying on men’s fashion, Watson, so you know when’s when._

Probably true.

A moment later, he stood before us. “Doctor Watson,” he said, with a slight incline of his head.

I stood, even though it didn’t bring us eye to eye.

He took my hand in both of his. “First Fire. Well done. I’m sorry I couldn’t have joined you and Sherlock for it.”

_There’s a lot in there._

I know, but what is it all?

“Thank you,” I said and smiled. I barely stopped myself from adding sir to my thanks.

He released my hand and I believe he smiled back.

“What were you doing in Paris or can’t you say?” Greg asked.

Mycroft bent down and took Molly’s hand and kissed it.

She smiled and blushed.

Mycroft turned to Greg. “You have a discerning eye, Gregory.”

Greg reached out for the lapel of Mycroft’s waistcoat and slid his thumb and index finger down the brocade. “Lovely fabric,” he said.

Mycroft’s glance moved from Greg’s fingers to his eyes. “I thought you would like it. I ordered a dressing gown for you in it.”

Greg’s eyes brightened and his voice dropped. “Why thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“You are most welcome Chief Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft replied. His glance lingered on Greg’s face, then swept to Molly. “And a peignoir for you, my dear, something elegant for the boudoir.”

Molly was nearly scarlet, but her smile was radiant.

I looked back and forth between the three of them. 

_Something French happening here?_

I don't think they have a monopoly on it. And, possibly.

Mycroft stood straighter and looked at us all. “I cannot stay, but must have a word with Sherlock before I go.” He inclined his head towards me again. “A pleasure, John.”

He turned then and added to Greg that he expected to be home by midnight.

“We’ll see you later, then,” Greg said, nodding.

Mycroft headed for the minstrel gallery.

_Not where I expected him to go._

No.

Then, I glimpsed Sherlock disappearing behind the door to the spiral stairs up to the gallery.

Up above, Kit was drinking a glass of water, while Mrs Hudson played _Scarborough Fair_. 

_Would have been nice to hear Kit sing that, too._

Lad needs a rest though.

A moment later, Sherlock emerged onto the gallery and silently glided behind Mrs Hudson. 

She did not miss a beat.

A minute after that, Mycroft came into view and joined Sherlock. It may have been a trick of the light because they were mostly in the shadows, but I thought I saw Sherlock smile.

I must have blinked. Sherlock was alone, raising his violin to his shoulder.

“Scarborough Fair” drew to a close. The conversation in the room grew a little louder.

I sampled something long and thin, like a finger, that turned out to be pastry full of ground nuts and honey. I chased it down with the wine. A small hum of pleasure escaped me.

I glanced at Molly. Greg was seated beside her now, holding the plate of food. He whispered something in her ear and she giggled. 

A high, plucked note sounded on a violin, followed by another and another. 

In unison, our heads turned to look up. Conversation faded away.

When the thirteenth note sounded, Kit resumed his place by the balustrade and sang - 

“Hark how the bells  
Sweet silver bells  
All seem to say  
Throw cares away…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kit is singing the beginning lines to _The Carol of the Bells_. We can assume that some of the words that we know would have been changed to suit a celebration of the solstice. The same is true for _The Holly and the Ivy_.


	37. Songs

I stood before the fountain of wine, trying not to stare at the figures around the silver tree trunk that looked so much like Sherlock and me. 

_Those weren’t there at the ball._

Nope.

_Of course, you’ve been to the sharing tree with him since then._

Yup. 

I interrupted a stream of wine trickling from the urn of one of the wine-bearers with my goblet. Wine ran over the rim. I steadied myself with one hand on the table and tried again. My cup filled.

_Not so sure-handed after the fourth or fifth round anymore, eh?_

I’m doing just fine.

I caught a drip sliding down the side of the goblet, wiped it away and licked my finger clean.

“Are you going to play soon, sir?” 

_Could you even find the strings, Watson?_

Hey.

I looked down to find Kit at my elbow, holding a plate piled even higher than mine had been, but with different delicacies and mounds of winter berries.

“I didn’t prepare anything for tonight,” I said.

“Ah,” Kit sighed. “Everyone would have been charmed.”

“That’s kind of you, Corporal. Hopefully, next year.”

Kit smiled at that and held his plate higher. “Would you like some, sir?”

I plucked a shiny blackberry from his dish and popped it into my mouth. The flavour took my whole mouth. I guessed that they were also in the wine.

Kit lifted his plate again and I took another. “I helped pick those yesterday before we went up to Llandon.”

“You have an excellent eye for perfect berries,” I said and popped the second one in.

_He has an excellent ear for perfect words, too. Charm. He said your music would charm everyone._

A new song floated down to us, Sherlock on his violin and Molly on the grand harp. They played beautifully together.

I clenched my teeth.

_Easy, Watson. She looks to be well-looked after elsewhere._

Yes, yes. And yet.

My fist closed about the goblet’s stem. They were playing _The Minstrel Boy_.

_Stand down, Captain._

My eyes stung.

_What is the problem? He’s thinking of you._

I took a calming breath. That was one way to think of it.

“There you are, John!” Mrs Hudson stood before me balancing a plate to rival Kit’s in its abundance. “You haven’t had any of the desserts! You wouldn’t want to miss the roast chestnuts. They were particularly fine this autumn. Or the marron glacés I made.” She smiled at Kit. “I see you’ve already eaten yours, sweet boy.”

Kit grinned. “They were marvellous!”

She patted his shoulder. “There just might be a few left in the kitchen. You come down later and we’ll see what we can find.”

I took the plate from her. “I was just complimenting your protégé.”

“Oh, he did do well, didn’t he?” She put her arm around Kit’s shoulder. “I told you you needn’t be nervous.”

Kit glanced around the room. “But there’s so many people here.”

I surveyed the guests with him and stopped at the Summer window. Bert and Wiggins stood before it, clinking their goblets together. They struck a sweet note, then drained them in one go.

“Won’t be for much longer though,” Mrs Hudson said, watching the pair, too. She looked up at the ceiling.

The colours of the setting sun glowed from between the branches supporting it. A few faint stars winked at the edges.

She looked down at Kit. “You come with Mrs Turner and me when we head to the kitchens.”

Evening sunlight streamed through Summer’s window, it lit the gold in Bert’s sandy hair and the gleam in Wiggin’s eyes.

_That’s unsettling._

To each their own. Bert seems keen, too.

I was about to turn my attention back to Mrs Hudson and Kit, when Wiggins folded the cushion back, stepped onto the seat and through the window. His arm reappeared, goblet in hand. Bert took it, set both cups aside and followed Wiggins into Summer.

_The night is still young for some._

Seems so.

Above us, the final refrain of _The Minstrel Boy_ was coming to an end.

_He’s thinking of you._

I hope so.

“Oh, there’s Miss Turner,” Mrs Hudson said. “I want to get her golden apple recipe.”

“Miss Turner?” I asked.

“Margaret’s…Mrs Turner’s sister. She’s the cook at The Holme, Mycroft’s home in the park by the lake.” She glanced at me. “Ah, you won’t have met her or the other Holme staff last year because you and Sherlock didn’t get back in time. We all gather for After Fire. Most of the people you don’t know here tonight are from The Holme.”

_Are they your patients, too?_

I would have thought someone would have mentioned that by now.

_Seriously?_

Well, I would have thought someone over there would have needed my services by now and I would have discovered their existence that way.

_Maybe they’re a particularly healthy bunch._

Or they have their own doctor.

“Ah, she’s stopped chatting with Reginald. I’ll just pop over and try my luck. I ask every year, you know,” Mrs Hudson said and was off.

“Shall we sit down, sir? It’ll be easier to eat.”

“Good thinking, Corporal. Lead on.”

Settled on the seat in front of Sherlock’s window, goblet in hand, I looked up to the gallery. 

Sherlock stood, bow raised, and nodded to Molly. Her fingers skimmed over the harp’s strings and she began to sing, “Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren’t go a-hunting for fear of little men.”

_I bet he picked that song. Your lover’s still thinking of you._

I’m not that little.

_Compared to him you are._

I huffed.

I couldn’t argue. I often wound myself around him, like a vine climbing up a tree, so long and lovely.

He was playing an intricate bridge between verses of Molly’s singing.

Mrs Hudson appeared beaming, with a young woman in tow. “Doctor Watson, may I introduce Miss Bridget Turner, Mrs Turner’s little sister, who has graciously shared her golden apple recipe with me.”

I stood.

Miss Turner bobbed a curtsy then took the hand I held out to her.

She was far younger than Mrs Turner and I couldn’t see a family resemblance, but not all siblings have that.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Turner,” I said and she was a pleasure to look at. Her hair piled high in intricate braids was so fair it seemed silvery in the waning light. Her eyes were also pale, the colour of spring leaves and they were wide as they regarded me.

“We were all sorry not to meet you last year,” she said, “but it was good you and Mr Holmes saved the wee sea serpent.”

_It was not wee! I suppose it might have been young as sea serpents go, but it was definitely not wee!_

“Saved, yes, thank you, Miss Turner.”

“Doctor Molly told us all about it,” she continued.

_Greg must have told her._

“And we all asked her whether she’d write a song about it.” Miss Turner looked up to the gallery. “Maybe she’ll sing it tonight.”

I looked up, too.

Molly was singing a verse to the tune of _Up the Airy Mountain_ that I didn’t remember.

“Down along the rocky shore  
Some make their home,  
They live on crispy pancakes  
Of yellow tide-foam;  
Some in the reeds  
Of the black mountain-lake,  
With frogs for their watchdogs,  
All night awake.”

“She has such a pretty voice,” Miss Turner enthused.

_She does. Admit it, Watson._

She does.

Sherlock glanced down at me. His eyes, too, had taken on a silvery sheen in the fading light.

A shiver ran down my back.

“Well,” Mrs Hudson said, taking Miss Turner by the arm, “we won’t keep you from your desserts any longer.”

“Pleased to have met you, Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, likewise,” I replied, but Mrs Hudson had already turned her away. 

“I had that golden apple dessert last year,” Kit said as he peeled the shell off a roasted chestnut. “It made everything sparkle.”

_Hallucinogen?_

Possibly. I’ll have to ask Mrs Hudson about the ingredients.

_Or fairy gold?_

A recipe for fairy gold?

Above us, Molly sang:

“They kept little Bridget  
For seven years long;  
When she came down again  
Her friends were all gone.  
They took her lightly back,  
Between the night and morrow,  
They thought that she was fast asleep,  
But she was faint with sorrow.  
They have kept her ever since  
Safe beside the lake,  
On a bed of fig-leaves,  
Delighting when she wakes.”

“I knew different words to that verse,” Kit remarked.

“Me, too,” I said.

“But I think these are the real ones.” He bit into a little berry tart, thought better of it, and shoved the whole of it in his mouth.

_He may be right._

Sherlock leaned back as he began a wilder version of the bridge between verses. High and higher the notes flew and further back he bent, my supple love.

My breathing quickened.

Down the music swooped and Sherlock leaned forward with it, over the edge of the balustrade, eyes closed, his bow a blur across the strings.

I vibrated with them.

He straightened slowly, eyes half-opening, his gaze sweeping over me.

My spine tingled.

And Molly sang in a tongue I did not understand.

“I’ve been studying that,” Kit said.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The words wouldn’t stick in my head. I’d shove them in and they’d just melt away.”

A shadow darted across the room and leapt onto the seat between us. 

Kit stroked the narrow back and Midnight began to purr. “Then Mrs Hudson taught me a tune for singing them and I’ve been doing much better. She said it’s like that with some people. They need the music to learn.”

“I’ll ask her about that. I had a song for learning the names of all the bones,” I said.

“Oh, if you sang, sir, the words would dance right into your head. They couldn’t say no,” Kit said and found a chunk of meat on his plate for Midnight. He looked up at me and smiled when Midnight jumped down to the floor with it in her mouth. “Mrs Turner never forgets Midnight.”

I smiled back and noticed that Molly’s words had turned to English.

“…Or going up with the music  
On cold starry nights,  
To sup with the Queen  
Of the gay Northern Lights.”

_It seems Sherlock’s mother is in the song._

So, it does.

The light was dimming.

I glanced at the ceiling. The sky between the tree branches was darkening, more stars gleaming against the deep blue.

Charlie, and several people I did not recognise, passed by with a smiling nod to Kit and I, and stepped up on the window seat next to us and disappeared into Summer’s sunny evening.

Kit found another piece of meat and dropped it down to Midnight. “I think Mrs Hudson will be wanting me down in the kitchens soon.”

I looked about.

Greg was chuckling at something Archie was telling him over near the open window to Spring, but several people seemed to be gathering near where the panel opened onto the passage to the library. 

_Boy’s more alert than you are, Watson._

I’m alert where I need to be.

I had noticed that the violin no longer accompanied the harp. I glanced around the room and found Sherlock joining Greg.

Mrs Hudson called Archie and he took his leave of Greg and Sherlock.

Kit pushed the last tart from his plate into his mouth and stood. He held out his arms and Midnight jumped into them. “I should go help, sir,” he said around the remains of the tart.

“Good-night, Corporal,” I said.

The harp fell silent.

The murmur of farewells took its place.

Molly waved at me and smiled as she hurried across the room towards Greg.

_Or Sherlock._

You are a troublemaker.

I watched them talk.

She did shine a little brighter when she looked up at Sherlock, but the roses bloomed in her cheeks when she looked at Greg.

The door to the passageway opened and Mrs Turner led the waiting guests into the dark, the sound of their progress silenced as they passed into it. Last of all, Mrs Hudson waved Kit and Midnight along ahead of her. She winked at me before she followed them into the shadows. She’d told me once that a good host never loses a guest. I smiled at the memory as the panel closed behind them. All signs of their presence erased.

Glancing back towards Spring’s window, I saw Greg holding Molly’s hand as she stepped though. Sherlock said something further to him as Greg stepped up onto the window seat. 

I set my plate aside, stood and retrieved my harp from below the window seat of Summer.

Greg was still listening intently to whatever Sherlock was saying.

I made my way up to the minstrel gallery and looked over the balustrade. 

Greg was gone as was everyone but Sherlock. 

He leaned out the window, one knee on the window seat, one hand on the casement.

A couple napkins floated off the buffet table, swirling in the confluence of Spring and Summer breezes in the middle of the room.

Sherlock shut Spring’s window.

The napkins fell to the floor. 

Spring’s colours glowed brightly around the figure of a beribboned Molly frozen mid-dance, illuminated by he rays of an evening sun still shining between Spring’s hills.

I shook my head. How I had missed that the figure in the glass was hers I couldn’t fathom.

_You weren’t looking very carefully._

Apparently not.

_Bit of a change for you._

Yeah.

Sherlock latched the window.

I watched him, tall and lithe, turn from it and I strummed the strings of the harp a little faster as I gazed at him. 

The fabric of his shirt was stretched across his shoulders and the breeze had ruffled his hair, forming his curls into a wild halo around his head.

The words of an old song sang in my head. Words that had never fit any of my many sweethearts. Words that seemed to have been waiting for him.

My fingers slowed as I plucked the opening bars and sang:

“Black, black, black is the colour of my true love’s hair,  
His lips are like the roses fair,  
The finest face and the neatest hands,  
I love the ground whereon he stands.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at me, his hand still on the latch, his knee still on the window seat.

“I love my love and well he knows,  
I love the grass whereon he goes,  
If he on earth no more I did see,  
My life would quickly fade away.”

My eyes were fixed on him, my fingers finding their own way amid the harp’s strings.

"I’d climb up the mountain for to mourn and weep,  
For satisfied I’d never sleep,  
I’d write of him in a thousand lines,  
I’d suffer death ten thousand times.”

His lips parted as he watched me. Those fair, fair lips parting as they did for a kiss.

And, I sang:

“The winter will pass and the leaves bud green,  
The time will come that we have seen,  
And there I’ll wait for that day to come,  
When you and I will be as one.”

He stood then, facing me, one hand running through his hair.

And, I sang to him.

“Black, black, black is the colour  
Of my true love’s hair…”

He began walking towards me then, his hand dropping to his chest. Lithe, my love.

And still I sang:

“His lips are like the roses fair,  
The finest face and the neatest hands,  
I love the ground whereon he stands.”

He stopped before the gallery, his hand slipping down his chest, the buttons of his shirt falling open as it passed.

“Black, black, black is the colour of my true love’s hair,” I sang and my voice was little more than a whisper.

He raised his arms, his shirt parting with his motion.

I watched his chest rise and fall.

“I love my love, and well he knows, I love the grass whereon he goes,” I sang softly and my voice flew about the quiet room.

He raised his arms higher.

“His lips are like the roses fair…” I murmured.

His lips parted as he took another step closer and opened his arms wider.

The starlight sparkled in his curls.

Wide-eyed, I looked down at him and sang ever more softly:

“Black, black, black is the colour of my true love’s…

_…wings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly sings the lyrics of "The Fairies" (also known as "Up the Airy Mountain") by William Allingham (1824-1889). Some of the words have been altered to suit the story.
> 
>  _Black is the Colour of My True Love's Hair_ is an older traditional folk song whose lyrics have been altered somewhat for the story. More about the song can be read [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Is_the_Color_\(of_My_True_Love%27s_Hair\)).


	38. Gold

The perpetual dusk of a rainy day lit the street beyond the library windows. The rain was splattering loudly against the panes, poised halfway between water and ice. They offered little in the way of light or view. 

I edged around the table littered with the remains of our meal and strode to the windows. Brass rings rattled as I shut the world away.

Task completed, only a thin slice of blue-tinged light from the slightly open laboratory door held off the dark. 

I knelt before the hearth, balancing log against log until I had a pyramid of birch. Tendrils of smoke rose from the ashes remaining from our earlier blaze. I hummed as I tucked scraps of bark and broken twigs between the logs until low flames licked the papery bark. I stood then, leaning against the garlanded mantlepiece, watching the bark curl away as the flames danced.

“Ah, there you are, dear!”

Mrs Hudson stood near the doorway, holding a tray.

“It was so dark in here, I thought you’d both gone off somewhere,” she said, crossing to the table and setting down the tray. “See anything dancing in the fire?” 

I shook my head. “Just the flames.”

She glanced at the closed curtains. “They look so much prettier in the dark.”

My eyes wandered back to the hearth. 

"One never looks at fire quite the same after one’s first Fire,” she remarked, stacking dishes off to one side of the table and setting out the items on the tray. “Of course, most of us were very young when we went. We hardly remember what it was like before. Different when one’s grown.”

I pulled my gaze away from the flames. “Do you see things dancing in the fire?”

“Now and then.” She lifted the lid of the teapot and a new fragrance joined the scent of pine and juniper that suffused the room. Gently, she replaced the lid. “My grandmother did. Often. In the middle of basting meat on the spit, she’d go still, butter dripping off the brush, and one of the children would run to get Doctor Hooper. He could see and interpret, too. The two gifts don’t always come together.”

I watched her as she poured golden liquid into three translucent, gold-trimmed cups. Above them, the bird skeletons swayed on their wires.

“What is that?” I asked, coming closer.

“The promise of spring in the middle of winter,” she replied, smiling. “To go with the golden apples dessert.”

I sat on the sofa. “You made it already!”

She tapped a gilt covered dish. I wanted to make it last night, but Mrs Turner prevailed upon me to tackle it with all my faculties intact.

It was my turn to smile. “The wine?”

“Playing always makes me thirsty.”

I nodded. “Potent stuff.”

“You saw things,” she stated, handing me a cup.

“I did.” I pointed at the candle surrounded by juniper on the table. “And when I ate one of those.”

She leaned back on the sofa. “Juniper.” She nodded to herself. “It’s in the wine, too. We have to keep track of which things affect you that way.”

I sniffed the steam from the tea and closed my eyes. A wall of roses unfurled their petals, golden in the sunshine. A breeze plucked at their petals, blowing some towards me. One landed in my palm. I rubbed my fingertip over the pale velvet of it and took a deep breath. Rose entered me. I sighed and opened my eyes.

Mrs Hudson’s gaze was on me. “This does not have juniper in it. You should keep track of what you perceive as well.”

“Golden rose!” Sherlock exclaimed around the edge of the door. He slipped past it and shut out the blue light of the lab behind him. “What is the occasion?”

Mrs Hudson held a cup up for him.

He held the fragile saucer and circled it gently beneath his nose. “You went to Summer last night, too.”

“This morning,” she said. “I didn’t want to serve anything else with the golden apples.”

He squeezed into the space between her and the arm of the sofa. “She gave it to you in exchange for an introduction to John.”

“After all these years of asking her, that was what did it,” she replied.

Frowning, I looked between them. “Is there something I should know about Miss Turner?”

_Think on the silvery gleam in his eyes when you were speaking with her last night._

“Yes,” they said in unison.

My eyebrows shot up.

“But not now,” Mrs Hudson said. “I have some news to share over our dessert.” She lifted the cover and revealed three golden apples that appeared to be floating in a sauce of liquid gold.”

“You improved on her recipe,” Sherlock remarked, leaning closer and studying the fruit.

“I experimented a little,” she replied, flushing. “Once I had the formula, it wasn’t hard, but none of my attempts to replicate it on my own ever worked.”

_Remember what Kit said._

“Are any of the ingredients hallucinogens?” I asked.

Mrs Hudson used a gilt ladle to scoop an apple out and set it softly in a small bowl before spooning sauce over it. She offered the dish to me. “See what you think.”

It had the aroma of a boiled apple seasoned with spices and possibly a liqueur, but the yellow skin appeared firm and the stem with its single leaf looked as though it had been brushed with gold leaf.

To be polite, I tasted it. My spoon didn't rest in the dish again until I had finished it. I resisted the urge to lick the bowl.

_Well done, Watson._

"That was extraordinary," I said. "Quite extraordinary."

Mrs Hudson smiled and held out her hand to me.

I took it and kissed it.

“You are a sweet man,” she said, blushing. 

“It was the least I could do after that,” I said, my tongue darting about my mouth in search of any lingering morsels.

“No, no, it was the least I could do after what you’ll notice in a minute,” she said, gaily.

I studied the hand I still held, the one that usually had a swollen middle knuckle on the little finger. I brushed across her knuckles. None of them were swollen in the least. I looked up at her.

She lifted her hand away and wiggled her fingers. “It made playing last night so much easier, but that’s not all.”

“Oh?”

She nudged the table forward, stood and did a little shimmy, ending with one hand on her hip. “It worked on my hip, too. I’d given up on that ever getting better,” she said.

“It?”

_You are a true orator, Watson._

“The ointment you made. I’ve used it morning and night as you said and it worked.” She swayed her hips once more and sat down, grinning. “I’m going to try it on my feet next. Dance takes an awful toll on feet.”

“The ointment did this?”

_Ah, you’ve caught up._

“Unless there was some other magic at work that none of us noticed,” she said and refilled my tea cup.

“Congratulations, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, lifting his cup. “On the successful beginning of your practice of medical magic.”

_Say something, Watson._

“I had a lot of help.” 

Mrs Hudson patted my leg. “That’s what friends are for, my dear.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I have such very good ones.”

_Are you going to cry again, Watson._

I didn’t cry before, but, you know, it would be all right if I did.

Mrs Hudson patted my leg again and told me to drink my tea.

My eyes swept over the walls of books as I obligingly raised my cup to my lips.

Every one of them glittered.


End file.
